


The Methodology of Magic

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Sex, Brief Stiles/Peter/Chris, Familiars, M/M, Magical Peter Hale, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tattoo Artist Cora Hale, Tattooed Peter, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 01:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13307973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: "You can't be a werewolf and a witch!" Stiles says."Why not?" Peter asks. He looks entirely too amused."They're conflicting magics!" Stiles says. "It's impossible!""And yet, here we are," Peter says.And...well, yeah. In the face of overwhelming evidence, Stiles' worldview is going to have to shift a bit. Werewolves can do magic, okay. Stiles also can do magic. Slightly more mind-boggling, but okay, he did levitate a cat after all. Said cat then led him through the woods to a magic werewolf's house. God.OrBased on Mysenia's prompt where Stiles' familiar tries to find creative ways to introduce him to his magic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely [Mysenia's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysenia/pseuds/Mysenia) fault, who threw out the idea of Stiles' familiar finding creative ways to introduce him to magic, based on [this post](https://pantstomatch.tumblr.com/post/169200194005). Shout out to [TriscuitsandSoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup) for title help!

Stiles' new cat is weird. And Stiles knows weird, all right? Stiles has been a master of weird since he first learned to talk, and let's be honest, probably even before that. So really, weird is normal for him, but his new cat? Fucking weird.

Stiles found Basel the cat in the preserve when he was cutting through on his way home from work. He'd heard yowling and had ignored all self preservation instincts and left the path, venturing into the trees. He'd followed the cries until he'd seen the cat, brownish grey with vibrant green eyes, with his back legs stuck in the thick mud lining a stream. Stiles had pulled the hissing cat free, getting a swat of claws across his hand for his trouble.

"Fine, ungrateful little shit. That's what my good deed of the day gets me," Stiles had grumbled as the cat bounded away into the trees. He'd dabbed at his bleeding arm as he trudged back to the path that led to his house. It was a good ten minutes before Stiles felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He'd turned around to see the damn cat about twenty feet behind him, following him down the path. "Oh, so now you want to be friends?" Stiles asked. 

The cat had just blinked at him. Stiles had rolled his eyes and kept on his way, but the cat followed him all the way home, then perched on his porch when he'd gone to unlock the front door.

"Okay, well, I'm going inside now," Stiles said. "Enjoy your mud-free life."

He'd expected the cat's unimpressed look be the end of it, but it wasn't. Every night for the next week, the damn cat had yowled under his bedroom window. Stiles had no idea how he knew which window was his, but he was exceedingly grateful he had his own house now, because his dad wouldn't have taken kindly to being kept up all night by a stray cat.

On the eighth night, Stiles had had a long day at work, he was exhausted, and he just wanted to fucking sleep, so when the damn cat started its yowling, Stiles stomped down the stairs and flung the back door open, shouting, "Fine! Come on if you want to be inside so badly!" A second later, the cat had run around the side of the house, bolting between Stiles' legs. He'd managed to catch it around the middle before setting it in the bathroom. "You are staying in there, okay?"

The cat had looked affronted, but Stiles had closed the door anyway. In the morning, he'd woken up with the cat on his chest, eyes closed, chin on its paws. Stiles had groaned, closing his eyes again. Well, it looked like he had a cat now.

Luckily, it had been Stiles' day off, so he was able to take the cat to the veterinary clinic where Scott works to get the cat checked over. Deaton, Scott's odd boss, had looked between Stiles and the cat with a considering look that Stiles couldn't decipher, before examining the cat. After finding out that the cat wasn't already microchipped, naming it Basel, and giving him his immunizations, Stiles walked out with Basel's registration information, a cat carrier, and a bag of food. Stiles had always wanted a dog growing up but, well, now he's a cat dad.

Basel does the normal cat stuff. He brings Stiles dead birds and mice, lounges in the sun, and digs his claws into whatever soft part of Stiles he's currently sitting on when he's trying to get comfy. He's finicky about food, only eating the obnoxiously expensive brand, even eating around the cheap food Stiles tries to mix with it to save money. He makes friends with the 10-year-old werewolf girl next door, which Stiles does think is a little weird because cats in general aren't always overly fond of werewolves, but eh, whatever. Normal cat behavior.

Basel also does things that aren't so normal, at least as far as Stiles is concerned. Three times in the last week, Basel has knocked all the books off of Stiles' desk except for the textbook on the history of magic in Europe that Stiles had been reading, which he then sits on, looking at Stiles expectantly. Basel knocks over a potted plant in the living room and the dirt falls in a perfect circle, almost exactly how a druid's mountain ash circle would fall. Basel, much to Stiles' confusion, will pounce on the remote control and change whatever channel Stiles is watching to one of Freeform's many Harry Potter marathons. 

It really comes to a head about a month into Stiles having Basel. He has water boiling on the stove, getting ready to drop in the pasta, when his phone rings. He steps away from to stove to grab it, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the water isn't boiling over. His heart stops because Basel is eyeing the stove with intent. Before Stiles can do anything, Basel leaps forward, and his trajectory is going to take him right onto the hot burner and boiling water. 

There's no way Stiles is going to be able to cross the kitchen in time, all he can do is scream," No!" and throw his hand out in front of him, as if that would do anything to help.

The thing is, Basel's fall stops in midair, barely a foot above the boiling pot of water. Stiles freezes, mouth open. Basel turns his head and meows, seemingly completely unconcerned that he's breaking all the laws of physics. Stiles has no idea what's happening except that apparently the only thing between Basel and serious burns is the power of Stiles' _mind_ , so he carefully moves his hand to the side, hoping the Basel will move, too. Sure enough, Basel floats through the air three feet before dropping harmlessly onto the kitchen counter.

"Oh my god," Stiles says, staggering backwards. "Oh my god, oh my god."

Stiles collapses into the closest kitchen chair, his head in his hands. He's taking deep, gasping breaths, trying to avoid his first panic attack in almost five years. It's not going so well, if his racing pulse and rapid breathing are anything to go by. He's starting to seriously worry that he's going to pass out, then Basel is there, batting at his face with his paws. Stiles lifts his head and Basel bumps his chin with his head, purring and rubbing against him. It helps Stiles focus, helps him take in one deep breath after another. He runs his hand down Basel's back, making him purr louder.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Okay, I have a magic cat. Fuck, okay."

As soon as he gets his equilibrium back, Stiles turns off the stove because fuck cooking right now. Basel jumps off the kitchen table and runs to the back door, pawing at it like he wants to go out. Stiles is smart enough not to stand in the way of a magic cat, so he opens it for him, but instead of shooting out into the preserve at the edge of Stiles' backyard, like he usually does, Basel trots just a few feet before turning around and looking at Stiles expectantly. 

"What?" Stiles asks. 

Basel walks a few more feet, to the steps off Stiles' back porch, and turns around again.

"Are you trying to get me to follow you?" Stiles asks. Basel doesn't say anything (thank fuck, because if Stiles' cat had started talking to him, he may have cried), but keeps looking over his shoulder at Stiles. Stiles groans and grabs his jacket off the hook by the door, pulling it on as he walks out. "Looks like I'm following my magic cat. God, and talking to my cat. There's an Eichen House cell with my name on it."

Basel doesn't reply, thankfully, just continues walking through Stiles' backyard. Stiles' house is older and on the edge of the preserve. It's cheaper than living in the more expensive parts of town and it lets him avoid traffic. It also means he can take a quick twenty-minute walk down one of the well-worn paths in the preserve to get to his job at the library every day. That's the path Basel leads him down now, the same path Stiles had been on when he found him. 

Instead of going straight at the fork Stiles would usually take, Basel takes him left, winding down a less used path. It's another fifteen minutes, all the time Stiles thinking he must be losing his mind to be playing follow the leader with his cat, before they emerge from the trees, right into someone's backyard. Basel weaves his way through the herb garden and up the grassy path, right to the backdoor, where he starts scratching and meowing.

"Basel!" Stiles hisses, darting up after his cat. He's careful to step on the grass only, not wanting to squish the homeowner's plants _and_ have to deal with his obnoxious cat. Stiles picks up Basel around the middle, ignoring his squirming. "It's rude to claw up people's houses!"

Before he can turn and flee, the door swings open and Stiles suddenly knows whose backyard he's in. The Hales are a prominent werewolf family and even though Stiles hasn't met Peter Hale, he recognizes him immediately from pictures in the local newspaper. He's much handsomer in person, broad shoulders and thick neck, eyes bright blue that the pictures just can't seem to encapsulate. And he's looking at Stiles and Basel, who stopped struggling as soon as Peter opened the door, with an arched eyebrow. 

"Uh," Stiles says, brain completely flying out the window. 

"I wondered where you'd gone off to," Peter says, which confuses the shit out of Stiles until he reaches forward and scratches under Basel's chin.

"Uh, is this your cat? I found him in the preserve and kind of adopted him," Stiles says. "And let me tell you, he's a weird fucking cat."

"If he found you, he's your cat," Peter says.

"Okaaay, that's a weird thing to say, but all right," Stiles says.

"Why don't you come inside? I was just about to make tea," Peter says. It's more of a demand than a request, because he turns and walks back into the house, expecting Stiles to just follow him.

And Stiles absolutely follows. Peter is the most powerful werewolf in northern California other than his alpha, and definitely the hottest, and Stiles' weird magic cat must have brought him here for a reason, right? So Stiles follows Peter in through the mud room and into his kitchen. Basel squirms out of his arms and darts away deeper into the house.

"Basel!" Stiles calls.

"It's fine," Peter says. "He knows his way around."

"So he _is_ your cat?" Stiles says. Damn, he doesn't want to give Basel back, even if he is a strange little fuck.

"No, he was from Lilith's last litter," Peter says, motioning to the black cat sunning herself on the windowsill. When she opens her eyes, they're the same vibrant green as Basel's. There's a white spot over her left eye and she has the same judgmental stare that Basel does. "He went off on his own a few weeks ago, presumably to find you."

"You named your cat after the first demon?" Stiles asks.

"I named my cat after the first woman," Peter corrects. "Who refused to be subservient to Adam. A perfect name for her."

"Right," Stiles says. "So, you know Basel's a magic cat?" Stiles immediately feels like an idiot. He expects Peter to laugh at him, but the man just shrugs.

"He has some, enough to be a familiar at any rate," Peter says. 

Stiles frowns but before he can ask what Peter means, Peter picks up two mugs and gestures for Stiles to follow him. Stiles does, letting Peter lead him through the kitchen door into a comfortable living room. It's elegant but understated. It doesn't scream of money, but the deep wood and luxurious furniture make it obvious that this isn't a budget home. 

Peter settles onto the soft gray sofa next to where Stiles sits in a dark wing-backed chair. Peter sets the two mugs on the coffee table in front of him and sits back to look at Stiles. Stiles tries not to fidget, but he has the disconcerting feeling like Peter's looking right through him. Stiles is usually great at breaking silences, it's something he excels at actually, but right now he has no idea what to say, not when Peter's studying him like he is. Thankfully, it's Peter who finally speaks.

"Basel is your familiar," Peter says. "That's why he found you in the preserve."

" _My_ familiar?" Stiles says. "That's not possible, I'm not magic."

"Really," Peter says doubtfully. "Nothing unexplainable happened to you today? Nothing that made Basel bring you here?" Stiles' mouth shuts with a click. "That's what I thought."

"I...he levitated," Stiles says.

"On his own?" Peter asks.

"I don't - he was about to jump on the hot stove and I just - I yelled 'no' and he just hovered in mid-air," Stiles says.

Peter raises his eyebrows at that. "Walk me through what happened," Peter says.

Stiles tells him about the boiling water, about his horror at the thought of Basel being hurt. He tells him how he'd thrown out his hand and Basel had stopped falling. Peter hums at that, looking intrigued. He finishes by telling Peter about Basel pulling him out of his almost-panic attack and leading him here.

"I don't know why I followed him and this sounds ridiculous," Stiles says, "but I think he wanted to lead me here."

"I think he did, as well," Peter says.

"You do?" Stiles asks. Hope swells that Peter doesn't think he's crazy.

"He's your familiar," Peter says again and this time it's harder to scoff at. "He brought you to me because I can help you with your magic."

"Okay, so let's say that's true," Stiles says. "Why would a werewolf know how to help me?"

Peter raises an eyebrow. He leans forward and hands Stiles a mug of tea. Stiles frowns a bit because the water's cold. Before he can ask Peter what kind of weird tea he makes, Peter presses his finger against the side of the mug. The tea instantly heats, warmth spreading through Stiles' hands, steam coming off the tea's surface. Stiles is so startled he almost drops the mug, probably would have if it weren't for Peter curling his hands around Stiles' on the mug.

"You can't be a werewolf _and_ a witch!" Stiles says.

"Why not?" Peter asks. He looks entirely too amused.

"They're conflicting magics!" Stiles says. "It's impossible!"

"And yet, here we are," Peter says.

And...well, yeah. In the face of overwhelming evidence, Stiles' worldview is going to have to shift a bit. Werewolves can do magic, okay. Stiles also can do magic. Slightly more mind-boggling, but okay, he did levitate a cat after all. Said cat then led him through the woods to a magic werewolf's house. God.

"Is this my 'yer a wizard, Harry' moment?" Stiles asks.

Peter laughs and sits back, taking his hands back. Stiles instantly misses the contact.

"If that helps you," he says.

"I...honestly don't know what to say," Stiles says. "When I was a kid, Scott and I would pretend to be werewolves because I just thought that was the coolest shit ever, you know? Magic was never even a blip on my radar. I don't even know anyone who's magical."

"You probably do," Peter says. "Most magic users are secretive, and for very good reason. The supernatural might be more accepted now than it was years ago, but magic is still generally mistrusted by mundanes."

"You told me," Stiles says. "And you hadn't even known me for ten minutes."

"I could tell you aren't a mundane," Peter says. He leans forward, clasping his hands in front of him, suddenly looking very serious, his earlier amusement gone. "I could feel your power, Stiles. And if I can, other magic users can, too. It's very, very important to learn how to protect yourself."

"From what?" Stiles asks, unease trickling through him. 

"Other magic users, for starters. Druids, darachs, witches. Plenty of them are corruptible if they see power they want and try to take it," Peter says. "Some hunters are legitimate, but plenty still operate outside the bounds of the law, and they're the most prejudiced. They'll go after magic users for no reason other than they can use magic. Especially the powerful ones."

"I don't think they'll come for me. I mean, I don't _feel_ especially powerful," Stiles says.

"Give me your hand," Peter says.

Stiles holds out his hand warily, palm up. Peter reaches out, hovering his own hand over Stiles', their palms an inch from touching. Stiles doesn't know what's going to happen, but there's tension, anticipation in his gut. Before he can ask, it's like an electric current shoots through him and it's all Peter. Stiles doesn't know how he knows, but he knows this is Peter's power licking over his skin. It's like Peter had been shielding him before but that shield's dropped. It doesn't hurt, but it is overwhelming and forceful, like he's being consumed by it. As quickly as it started, it stops, leaving Stiles clinging to Peter's hand. He doesn't even remember grabbing it.

"What the fuck was that?" Stiles asks, his voice slightly breathless.

"That was my magic, more or less," Peter says. "My 'essence' I suppose, if you want to go all new agey about it. That's what I would feel like to nearly any magic user I came across if I weren't hiding it, like I am now."

"That's...fuck, you feel strong," Stiles says.

Peter tightens his grip on Stiles' hand and grins sharply, flashing fang. It makes Stiles' heart beat a bit faster, but not from fear. 

"I am," Peter says. Apparently modesty isn't his strong suit. "But you, Stiles. You feel like a hurricane. I'm powerful, but if you wanted to, you could blow me out of the water."

And that's...that's a lot. Stiles has never been particularly great at anything. Yeah, he's smart, but that's it. He wasn't a lacrosse star in high school, he doesn't have some ridiculous prodigious musical skills, he's never been an engineering genius. He's been good at many things, but never great. The idea of him being some supremely magical being is just...it would be laughable, if Peter weren't so sure. If it weren't for Basel the levitating cat.

"So I'm, what, a witch?" Stiles asks.

"I think you're something else entirely," Peter says. He lets go of Stiles' hand, and Stiles immediately misses the supernatural warmth. "I think you're a spark. A slightly different flavor of magic than mine, a little more in touch with the natural world and stronger, but similar enough that I can teach you."

"You'll teach me?" Stiles says excitedly. The idea of going home and trying to Google witches had been giving him a headache. "Don't take this the wrong way, but why would you, the most secretive and elusive of the Hales, notoriously distrustful, be okay with teaching me about magic? Unless you're actually one of those darach druid things intent of sucking magic out of me, in which case I should probably think about running."

Luckily, Peter seems amused rather than offended, and really that's a unique reaction to Stiles. 

"It's smart of you to be wary, but luckily, I'm not a darach. I'll teach you because I find you interesting, and I like you. A rare feat," Peter says. "And your familiar is desperate enough that he's willing to risk falling into boiling water to get you trained, and I'd like Basel to remain in one piece."

And, okay. Stiles has a magic mentor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a shitty day and a $1,200 hit for car repairs, so here, have a chapter early! It was going to be longer but my cranky need for validation apparently wins out lol.

Peter starts him on theory, which is at the same time fascinating and frustrating. Stiles loves poring over Peter's books in his library, loves learning what makes magic magical, but he also itches to actually practice. Now that he knows he has magic, now that Peter's shown him what to look for, he can feel it prickling under his skin, yearning for a way out, to be used. Stiles still has a full-time job and Peter does...something, so Stiles can't spend all day holed up in the library, as much as he'd like to. Basel is usually with him, sitting on the desk or on Stiles' lap while he reads, Stiles running an absent hand through his fur. Peter usually joins him and Stiles cracks up the first time he sees that Peter's reading a Matthew Reilly action novel.

"What?" Peter asks as Stiles cackles.

"Nothing," Stiles says, shaking his head. "Just, I'm reading a 300-year-old book written by Salem witch, and you're reading a book where a character gets eaten by a killer whale."

Lilith, from her spot on the desk next to Basel, gives him a deeply judgmental look, but that seems to be her default setting when it comes to Stiles, so he isn't shocked. Peter rolls his eyes but Stiles thinks he looks fond. He hopes it's fond, because he's a little too fond of Peter himself. 

Stiles loves Peter's library. It reminds him of the studies he'd see in old gangster movies mixed with modern elegance. There are comfortable wing-backed chairs and dark wood bookshelves lining the room, but it's well-lit and the walls are painted a light color, keeping it from feeling too much like a dark dungeon. Peter had cleaned off his second desk with minimal grumbling, making a work space for Stiles only a few feet from his own. 

The first bit of magic Peter has Stiles try is his shields. The phrase makes Stiles think of Star Trek, and while Peter looks pained at that, he admits that the concept is basically the same. They're in a spare bedroom on the second floor. There's no bed in it, instead there are a half dozen large, purple and blue floor pillows stacked in front of the large window. There's a large chest against one wall that Peter tells him contains his yoga supplies, and Stiles personally thinks he deserves a damn medal for not getting an instant boner at the thought of Peter in yoga pants.

Peter drags two of the cushions into the middle of the room and sits on one, motioning for Stiles to take a seat on the other. Stiles settles on the soft cushion, pulling his legs up until he's sitting cross-legged. He feels calm in here, at ease. Feeling that way around Peter isn't new, but this is bone-deep sense of serenity that he isn't used to. He isn't surprised that when he looks up, he sees a rune array in silver on the ceiling. 

"There's one under the rug, too," Peter says, noticing his gaze. Sure enough, Stiles can see the edge of a rune peeking out from under the corner of Persian rug. 

"What are they for?" Stiles asks. The one painted on the ceiling is immensely complicated, much more so than any Stiles has seen in Peter's books so far. "And if you say keeping you grounded, fair warning, I'm going to laugh at you."

Peter snorts. "No. The first is to help with concentration and focus," Peter says, tapping the rug next to him before pointing up. "That is relaxation and mindfulness." 

"I thought you weren't into anything new agey?" Stiles says.

"I'm not. Luckily, these are very old," Peter says. "As for what they're for, well. Believe it or not, I used to have a bit of a problem with anger. Controlling magic and a wolf is difficult if you don't have control of yourself. This helped me learn to focus my mind and control my abilities, both magical and lycan."

"That makes sense," Stiles says. "I mean, just sitting here feels like I've taken the most helpful dose of Adderall ever."

"There's a mage in Los Angeles who actually has a good spell for people with ADHD now that I think of it. I'll have to see if he still has his shop," Peter says. "These arrays here are just for when you're learning or meditating, not meant for consistent use. It's a solid place to learn the foundation of what you need to do, so once you've figured it out here, you can apply it in every day life."

"Okay," Stiles says. "Sounds simple enough."

It isn't simple enough. Stiles figured that constructing what amounts to a barrier around himself isn't going to be easy, but he didn't expect it to be this hard. He'd also naively hoped that this whole super powerful thing he apparently has going on would make it simpler, but it seems that it's exactly the opposite. More power, harder to hide.

Some of what peter describes just doesn't make sense, like coaxing his magic out to surround himself with his shield. Because his magic doesn't need to be coaxed, it's always there, bubbling under the surface ready to be used. It's the channeling and knowing what to do with it that makes Stiles hesitant. He's supposed to be this super powerful spark, right? So what happens when he fucks up? There was a mage somewhere in South America last year that blew up an entire city block, prompting some pretty repressive anti-magic legislation. So Peter and Stiles go to the bare basics; how his magic feels. 

Peter says that his own magic feels like warmth and the deep heart of the forest. Stiles' feels like electricity and manic energy. How much that has to do with his anxiety and ADHD, he doesn't know, but he's pretty sure it's a contributing factor. Peter readily admits that most of what he knows is geared toward witches, so they have to tinker a bit with what Stiles learns, but after an exhausting and frustrating week, Stiles can wrap his magic around himself, creating a block. It's not perfect, Peter can still feel the magic on him, but it's more of a whisper instead of a shout.

"It's progress, you should be proud," Peter tells him. "It'll become second nature to you soon. You'll barely have to focus on keeping your block up."

Stiles hopes so, because outside of Peter's meditation room, it can be a struggle.

When they aren't meditating and working on Stiles' shield block thing, they're in Peter's library. Since Stiles was a kid, he's had the habit of murmuring under his breath as he reads, something that he needs to break himself of soon, because two weeks into his training, he's mumbling the words he's reading from one of Peter's spell books when the table lamp he's drumming his fingers on turns into solid ice. Stiles yelps at the sudden cold and yanks his hand back, looking at the ice lamp with wide eyes. Peter looks up quickly from his laptop, his eyes gleaming as he takes in what Stiles has done.

"I didn't mean to!" Stiles says.

"I'm sure you didn't, though I'm glad it was the lamp you were touching and not Basel," Peter says. Stiles looks down at Basel in his lap with wide, horrified eyes, before he sees Peter's smirk. "I'm joking, Stiles. That spell doesn't work on living beings."

"You're such an ass," Stiles groans, letting his head thunk down onto the desk. "How do I make it go away?"

"How do you think?" Peter asks.

"I don't know, there isn't a counter spell," Stiles says, lifting his head enough to peer at the open book.

"I know," Peter says. "You'll run into a lot of things in real life that won't have a counter spell next to them. So I asked again, how do you think you do it?"

That's something Stiles both likes and hates about Peter. Peter doesn't make it easy on him, makes him work out his issues himself, which is honestly the way Stiles learns best, but sometimes he just wants the man to throw him a bone. Instead, Peter watches patiently as he waits for Stiles to figure it out. Stiles tries to remember all he's read over the last two weeks. He's read a _lot_ , always has been a voracious reader, but he thinks he remembers something by a 15th century druid from Ireland.

"Morgan's basic reversal spell won't work because the state of the object was changed, right? Like water to wine would be fine since they're both liquids, but this is a man-made object to something more elemental?" Stiles says. Peter nods at him, but doesn't say anything. "Would it be application of Domnall's method of transfiguring with natural magics?"

Peter smiles at him proudly and that makes something in Stiles' stomach flutter. "Aren't you just the clever one?" Peter says and Stiles blushes brightly. 

"I, uh, I don't know how to do that," Stiles says.

"It's a simple enough spell once you know what you're doing," Peter says, standing from his desk. He hums as he walks down the bookshelf lining the wall until he plucks a book from its space and makes his way back to Stiles. He flips through the pages until he finds the right one and sets it down in front of Stiles.

"Is there an English version or am I gonna stumble my way through medieval Gaelic?" Stiles asks, eyeing the text warily.

Peter smirks at that. "There is an English version, but it isn't as powerful. I'll let you listen this time," Peter says.

The words flowing out of Peter's mouth are beautiful and complicated, and Stiles absolutely knows he'll butcher them when he tries, but they sound gorgeous from Peter. To be fair, anything Peter says sounds wonderful, the ass. The ice lamp glows brightly for a moment before the ice shatters, leaving behind Peter's swirly glass lamp, completely undamaged.

"That is so fucking cool," Stiles says. 

"Parlor tricks compared to what you're capable of, sweetheart," Peter says. Stiles still feels off kilter when Peter says things like that, casually talking about how powerful he thinks Stiles is. It must show on his face because Peter says, "Not many magic users can turn something into ice after training for a couple weeks, just by muttering."

"It was an accident," Stiles points out.

"Exactly," Peter says. "You pushed no intent into your words, didn't try to do a fairly advanced bit of magic, but it still happened."

"That...is kind of alarming, actually," Stiles says, his heart beating a little bit faster. "What if I accidentally blow my house up if I talk in my sleep? How have I not _already_ blown my house up in my sleep?"

"Relax," Peter says, gently squeezing the nape of Stiles' neck. Stiles can't help but let his eyes flutter at the contact. "Your latent abilities were recently triggered by Basel, so you haven't just been walking luck's line for twenty-five years. As for how to keep from blowing anything up now?" He nudges the book on the desk closer to Stiles. "That's why we're training you."

Stiles takes a deep breath and nods. Peter studies him silently for a few more moments before giving the nape of his neck a final squeeze. He lets go and stands.

"I think that's enough for today. Clean up the ice, then come downstairs for dinner," Peter says. 

Stiles nods, relieved. Now that the shock of turning the lamp to ice has worn off, he feels drained, like the burst of accidental magic has zapped him of all his energy. After dusting the ice off the desk and into the trash can, Stiles makes his way down the stairs, following the smell of the roast from the kitchen. Peter's had it cooking slowly all day and it smells divine. 

Stiles doesn't always stay for dinner, but he enjoys it when he does, likes getting more of a glimpse into who Peter is when they aren't studying or practicing. He likes knowing that Peter likes breakfast for dinner, and makes a mean French toast. He likes knowing that Peter has three siblings, and all but one are werewolves. He likes knowing the face Peter makes when he gets a phone call from someone he doesn't want to talk to.

Stiles moans at the first bite of the roast. It's juicy and delicious, and of course Peter doesn't have the decency to be a bad cook.

"Is there _anything_ you're bad at?" Stiles asks, washing the roast down with a sip of wine.

"As a rule, no," Peter says with a smug little smirk. "Though I'll deny this if anyone asks, truth be told, I'm not very good at writing poetry."

"What's your version of 'not very good'? Only three books published?" Stiles asks.

Peter just smirks and takes another bite.

When they've finished, Stiles tries to help with dishes, because he was raised to be a gentleman, damn it, but Peter just nudges him to the side, telling him to relax in the living room, and that he'd bring out the cobbler in a moment. _Cobbler._ Peter Hale, one of the most feared werewolves in the state, makes cobbler. Stiles cannot handle this.

Stiles does as Peter says, flopping onto the couch in the living room. It's soft and comfortable, and he's so, so tired. He means to just close his eyes and rest until Peter comes out with dessert, but he doesn't surface for hours. He vaguely registers being lowered until he's lying down, then nothing until 7:00 the next morning when a few drops of water hit his head. Stiles jerks, eyes flying open, to see Peter standing above him, flicking drops of water at Stiles' face from the glass in his hand. It takes a second for him to register that he's asleep on Peter's couch and not at home in his bed, then he groans, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. (Did Peter give him a pillow?)

"You're a real asshole, you know that?" Stiles says.

"I'm not the one who fell asleep after dinner, depriving their host of good conversation," Peter says. He flicks more water at Stiles.

"Okay, I'm up! Jesus, you're worse than my dad," Stiles says. He pulls himself up, groaning at the head rush. He's suddenly very aware that he hasn't brushed his teeth since yesterday morning, and he feels disgusting.

"You don't work today, right?" Peter asks.

"The library is closed Sundays, so no, I don't work," Stiles says, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Good. We'll stop at your house so you can shower, then we'll go," Peter says, walking out of the living room.

"Go? Go where?" Stiles asks.

"Get your shoes on," is Peter's answer.

Before they walk out the door, Peter thrusts a travel tumbler full of smoothie into Stiles' hands.

"Oh god, you're one of those," Stiles says.

"If by 'one of those' you mean someone who thinks you should have more than a bowl of Cap'n Crunch in the morning, yes, I am," Peter says, locking up the house. "Magic takes a lot of energy, it's important to eat."

Stiles grumbles, but has to admit that Peter's right. And the smoothie isn't even bad. 

They're only at Stiles' house for a half hour while he showers and gets ready. He's 100% sure that Peter is snooping around his house, which isn't nearly as interesting or grand as Peter's, but when he steps into the living room, Peter's sitting on his couch, scratching Basel behind the ears. 

They're in Peter's car, a snobby Mercedes-Maybach, almost to edge of Beacon Hills, when Peter says, "Did you know your house used to be haunted?"

"What?" Stiles asks.

"You can feel the faint spiritual residue if you focus on it," Peter says. "And I know that Alan Deaton helped a spirit move on before the last owners moved out."

"Deaton? Scott's boss, the weird vet, _Deaton_?" Stiles asks, jaw dropping.

"Mm, the one and the same. He's a druid," Peter says.

"Son of a bitch," Stiles says. "I took Basel there."

"What?" Peter says sharply, glancing over at him.

"When I found him, I took him to Deaton's since Scott works there to make sure he's healthy and wasn't someone's runaway cat," Stiles says. "He should have been able to sense the whole magic user thing, right?"

"Deaton's very middle of the road in terms of power, but yes, even someone as mediocre as him would have been able to tell you were more than just human," Peter says.

"So why didn't he say anything?" Stiles asks.

"I don't know," Peter says, frowning.

"But you have theories," Stiles says, because he knows that about Peter. His mind is always working, always looking for connections.

"I do," Peter says.

"And?" Stiles asks. When Peter doesn't seem like he's going to be very forthcoming, Stiles adds, "I feel like since it applies to me, I kind of have the right to know."

"Pushy," Peter grumbles. "I think he could have sensed how powerful you are and strong beings upset the balance," Peter says the word with a sneer, "which tends to be his guiding light. He also tends to have a policy of non-interference, which has hurt others in the past."

"So he would just watch me magically self-combust?" Stiles asks. "Because he doesn't _feel_ like helping?"

"That has been his way of doing things, yes," Peter says. His hand is tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white.

"I get what you mean now about druids being shifty," Stiles says. And to think, Scott all but idolizes the man.

"They're not _all_ that way...but enough are that it's smart to be cautious around them," Peter says. There's more there, Stiles knows it. But he also knows Peter, and knows when pushing is going to get him what he wants and when it'll just get him shut down.

"Well I'm glad Basel brought me to you instead of him," Stiles says.

Peter smiles then and it lacks the usual taunting edge. "So am I."


	3. Chapter 3

They're about two hours outside of Beacon Hills when Stiles guesses that their destination is San Francisco. 

"We're going to visit an acquaintance of mine," Peter says, and won't tell him anything else until they're parking outside of a large Victorian house. It's situated one block away from a busy street in a residential neighborhood and has a large, weather-worn sign that says 'PSYCHIC READINGS' hanging over the front porch.

"Really," Stiles says, looking at Peter with raised eyebrows.

"Julianne makes her money as a seer doing readings," Peter says. "Some are accurate, some aren't. It depends on if she likes you."

"We're here to get my fortune told?" Stiles asks.

"No," Peter says. "She's also a powerful witch and can help find you a focus."

Peter gets out of the car before Stiles can ask what a focus is, and starts up the path. The yard on each side of the walkway is teeming with flowers and herbs, similar to Peter's backyard but more chaotic. It makes Stiles' nose itch. 

The front door opens before they reach it, revealing a women in her fifties. She's wearing a long sundress, chunky earrings, and no shoes. She's grinning from ear to ear when she sees them, stepping out onto the porch.

"Peter Hale, as I live and breathe. I Saw you coming," she says. Her eyes slide over to Stiles, and she smiles even wider. "And who do we have here?"

"If you Saw, surely you know," Peter says, teasing her. 

"Of course, but it's rude to act like you know everything. Gotta keep some of the mystery in life," she says, winking at Stiles.

"Stiles, this is Julianne. Julianne, this is Stiles," Peter says.

Julianne and Stiles shake hands and she hums consideringly, holding on for a just a tad too long before letting go.

"He hasn't taken an apprentice in years. There must be something very special about you," Julianne says. 

Stiles has no idea what the right answer, so he says, "Far be it from me to question Peter's infinite wisdom."

Julianne throws her head back as she laughs. "Oh, I hope he takes you down a peg," Julianne says to Peter. "Come on inside."

They follow her through the door and into a living room that strongly reminds Stiles of Professor Trelawney's classroom. Peter's house might not be what Stiles had thought a witch's house would like, but Julianne's definitely is. It's cluttered with soft chairs, shawls draped over lamps to give it a soft glow, with a roaring fire in fireplace that seems to be purely for visual effect since it doesn't give off any heat. There's a round table with an honest-to-god crystal ball on it and lining the shelves around the room is various magical paraphernalia. Athames, pestles and mortars, crystals, even a few small cauldrons and an old ouija board. 

"Do those work?" Stiles asks, motioning to the ouija board.

"Sometimes," Julianne says with a shrug. "Depends on the user. I'd advise not playing with one, though."

"Why?" Stiles asks.

"You never know who could be listening on the other side," she says. "Everything in here is just stereotypical prop stuff anyway. The people who come to see a psychic expect a certain amount of cheesy, mystical crap."

They don't stop, following her through a doorway covered by a deep maroon curtain. It's a complete 180 from the room they were just in. Stiles thinks it was originally the formal dining room, but Julianne is using it as a living room. There's a bright, overdyed area rug, a leather couch, glass coffee table, and a huge, wall-mounted TV. Julianne smirks at Stiles' surprise.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" she asks.

"Stiles is having a bit of trouble controlling his magic," Peter says. "We're hoping you can help him find his focus."

"Easy," Julianne says. "There must be a dozen magic users between here and Beacon Hills that could manage that. Why come all the way here?"

"I'm sure you can feel how powerful Stiles is," Peter says. 

"Of course," she says. "Still learning shields?"

"Yes," Peter says. "And we would like to keep his abilities to ourselves, so we require your...discretion."

"Understandable," she says. She looks over at Stiles and he has the distinct feeling of an ant being studied under a microscope. After a few moments of silence, she says, "Have a seat, I'll be back in a few minutes."

Stiles and Peter settle on the couch as she sweeps out of the room.

"What exactly is a focus?" Stiles asks.

"Something, usually an animal or a sigil, that helps you focus or channel your energy," Peter says.

"What, like a spirit animal?" Stiles asks.

"No, that's a Native American thing," Peter says. "And this isn't a guide, you have your familiar for that. This is just to help harness your energy."

"So like a werewolf's anchor?" 

"Similar."

"If yours is a wolf, I'm calling fraud," Stiles says. 

"No," Peter says, snorting. "Mine is a king cobra." 

"So, you're a Slytherin. Figures."

"Right? Not shocking at all," Julianne says, sweeping back into the room. She's carrying a small basket and has a chinchilla perched on her shoulder. She catches Stiles looking and says, "That's Alcina. She's feeling particularly clingy today."

Stiles gets it. There are days where he can barely get ready for work because Basel is intent on being as needy as possible.

"Alcina, the Greek sorceress?" Stiles asks.

"One and the same," Julianne says.

She sets the basket down on the coffee table. Peter stands, offering her his seat on the couch, which she takes. She pulls out a bottle of water, handing it to Stiles, and a few jars that are so dark that Stiles can't see what's in them. Julie turns toward him, sitting sideways and cross-legged on the couch.

"This is the part that gets all mystical, mumbo jumbo-y," she says. "I'm going to take your hands, do a little magical reading, and see if we can find your focus."

"Okay," Stiles says. "Why a focus? Why not just a magic wand or something? Are those real?"

"Wands fell out of favor in medieval times. Too easy to spot a magic user and they were quite fond of killing us back then," Julianne says. "A focus, in a way, acts like a wand would. And it's much easier to have a tattoo of your focus than carry around something you might have taken away from you."

"They're _tattooed_ on?" Stiles asks.

"Peter, did you tell him anything about why you were coming today?" Julianne asks.

"I enjoy seeing his reaction to new things far too much," Peter says.

"Sadist," Stiles grumbles. 

"Seriously," Julianne says. She reaches her hands out. "Ready?"

Stiles sighs. He just knows his is going to be a fruit fly or some shit like that.

"Sure," he says, and takes her hands.

He's expecting some big, grand power washing over him, kind of like when he'd touched Peter for the first time, but Julianne's power is gentle. He's absolutely sure she could flatten him if she wanted to, but all he feels is a gentle tingle from her hands, traveling slowly up his body. Peter is watching intently and Stiles just knows he would rip him away if for a second he thought anything were wrong. That comforts him more than he thought it would.

Julianne's magic prods at his own, wrapping around and exploring. Stiles' new shields, still flimsy, don't hold up well under her scrutiny. They fall, and immediately Julianne gasps, tightening her grip on Stiles' hands. Stiles can see Peter move in his peripheral vision, but he shakes his head, trying to let him know it's all right.

"Sorry," Julianne says, breathless. "I just wasn't expecting that."

A moment later, she's letting go, and Stiles is scrambling to put his shields back up. They haven't been ripped to shreds like if he were attacked, but he still feels off balance and exposed, even though he's really only been able to shield himself for a few days.

"Here," Julianne says, pushing the water bottle to him. Stiles takes it, drinking gratefully. He's glad he didn't have anything heavier than the smoothie, his stomach rolling dangerously. 

"You are very unique," she says, studying him. 

"Yeah, I get that a lot," Stiles says. "Usually right before teachers told my dad I was disruptive to have in class."

Peter huffs a laugh and Julianne grins. 

"Well, I mean this in a positive way," she says. "Your flavor of magic is very rare, and I don't blame you for wanting to keep that private."

Julianne plucks a sketchbook and pencil from the basket on the table, humming as she draws. 

"Let me guess, a Roswell alien?" Stiles asks.

"No, though that'd be wicked cool," Julianne says. "Your focus is this."

She flips the sketchbook around to show a sigil Stiles doesn't recognize, though it has three swirling arms that strongly remind him of the triskele Peter told him the Hale pack uses as their symbol. This one is more complicated though, with a double circle around the outside and other, smaller runes between the arms.

"That...looks very complicated," Stiles says. And too similar to the Hale pack symbol to be a coincidence.

"It is," Julianne says. "More complicated than usual. Like I said, you're unique. Tell me Stiles, what do you want to do with your magic?"

"Do with it?" Stiles asks.

"Some specialize in wards and become security consultants, some are more apt at potion making and get into magical medicine. Some go the hunter route but, well," Julianne says, and the way she's scrunching up her nose makes it very clear what she thinks about that path. "So, what about you?" 

"Uh. Well, I'm a librarian..." Stiles says slowly.

"Magical archivists are a thing, if that's the route you want to go," Julianne says. "I'd suggest just keeping in mind careers when we're discovering your strengths. It's usually not good for magic to grow stagnant."

"Thanks," Stiles says. "This...has been weird, but helpful."

Julianne snorts. She takes the two jars she'd set out and presses them into Stiles' hands. "One's a tea that helps recharge magical strength, and the other is just mountain ash. I'd prefer you get it from a reputable source," she says mildly. Stiles thinks of those other dozen magic users between here and Beacon Hills. And in Beacon Hills. 

They thank her again, and she refuses to take payment when Peter offers, saying that he has to call her more often now. Peter huffs but accepts the hug on their way out the door. 

"So," Stiles says, taking out the sketch Julianne had given him once they're in Peter's car. "What do I do with this?"

"Most people either get a talisman made or get it tattooed on them," Peter says. 

"What'd you do?" Stiles asks.

"Tattoo," Peter says, smirking when Stiles gapes at him.

"Oh my god, I have to see that," Stiles says.

"I'm not taking my shirt off while I'm driving," Peter says.

The thought of Peter shirtless, with a _tattoo_ , nearly sends Stiles into dangerous arousal territory, but he manages to pull it back with thoughts of slugs and roadkill. That's not something he needs Peter smelling, especially in a cramped car.

They stop for lunch at small sushi restaurant before heading back to Beacon Hills. They're driving in comfortable silence, something that's a rarity for Stiles, when Peter's phone rings. He sighs before picking it up and answering.

"Bianca, what can I do for you?" Peter asks. He's using a pleasant, customer service voice that doesn't fool Stiles for a hot second. He can't make out what Bianca is saying, but it has Peter rolling his eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with the warding," Peter says.

A mumble of a voice. Peter's nostrils flaring.

"That wasn't included because you didn't request it," Peter says. "You wanted basic protection wards, which I provided. If you want something more advanced, the price does go up."

More garbled words. Peter drumming his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. 

"It would be an extra $2,000 for fire wards, and $5,500 for protection against enchantments," Peter says.

An outraged squawk down the line. Peter gritting his teeth, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

"You're welcome to go to Morrell if you want, but her rates are similar and we both know her work isn't as good," Peter says. "They're complex to do and take a lot of time and effort. They're high-priced for a reason."

Stiles is pretty sure he hears the word 'asshole' down the line. Peter snorts. 

"You do that," Peter says, then ends the call. He exhales, long and irritated, and tosses his phone into the cup holder.

"So that's what you do? Wards for people?" Stiles asks.

"Among other things," Peter says. "I'd bring you with me, but this particular client is very paranoid and wouldn't take well to a stranger tagging along."

"I get it," Stiles says. "I probably should have guessed with how good your rune work is."

"It's true, I am rather wonderful," Peter says, making Stiles roll his eyes. "I'll be gone tomorrow working with them, so I won't see you until Tuesday. Work on your shields until then and decide if you want a talisman made of your focus or if you want it on your body."

"Okay," Stiles says. They're pulling onto his street, Peter's car earning looks from Stiles' next door neighbor, Carl. Carl drives an '89 Camry, so Stiles gets it. "Good luck with all that nonsense. Don't kill anyone, I don't have the money to bail you out."

"The Hales have money, so no promises," Peter says. 

Beacon Hills Library is slow the next day, so between helping old Mrs. Gilbert with Google and shelving books, Stiles works on his shields and thinks about the focus. He's pretty sure he's going with the tattoo option, as much as he doesn't like needles, because he knows himself and knows he'll lose a talisman. (He's also kicking himself for not seeing Peter's tattoo before he dropped him off at home the day before.) The shields come easier today, like Peter had promised they would. It's like a muscle; after working out enough, bicep curls with twenty-pound weights get easy. 

Stiles thinks his magical senses are getting a little better, too. He's always been pretty good at identifying if someone was a little more than human, but when a teenager walks in to the library after school, Stiles just knows he's a werewolf. He doesn't know how, he can just feel it. Maybe it's their 'aura', as much as Peter hates that term, but their energy just screams werewolf. The old woman that returns Return of the King is a vampire, the kid reading in the corner is part fae, and his coworker, Calli, feels like a phoenix. It also means Stiles feels the second another magic user enters the library.

Stiles tenses as a wave of power hits him. It isn't strong, not like Peter is, but it's there. He doesn't look up, though it's hard. He doesn't like feel of it, and doesn't want whoever it is to know he can feel it. He's glad for his caution when someone steps up to his desk and clears their throat. He doesn't have to feign the look surprise on his face when he looks up to see Deaton standing there.

"Deaton," Stiles says. "Uh, hi. What can I help you with?"

"Hello, Stiles," Deaton says, and Stiles really doesn't like the intense way he's being studied. He's glad his shields are in place, even though he's sure he's magically leaking a bit. "I seem to have misplaced a book on the biology of the crocotta. Would you be able to help me?"

"Yeah, sure," Stiles says. It's illogical that his heart is beating faster, that his anxiety is flaring up, but something in the way Peter reacts to Deaton's name has him on edge. He turns and calls back into the backroom behind his desk. "Hey, Calli!"

"Yeah?" she calls back.

"Can you watch the front desk for a minute?" he asks.

Calli, a college kid with short, spiked blonde hair, appears in the doorway. "Sure," she says with a shrug. "Anything for a break from organizing back stock."

"That's the enthusiasm I love from employees," Stiles says. He motions for Deaton to follow him. "Our supernatural section is over here."

Deaton follows Stiles, making the hair on the back of his neck stick up. He can feel Deaton's magic poking at him, looking for weaknesses, testing him. That's the only reason Stiles would be able to feel him this clearly. He wants to be noticed. Stiles doesn't react, though his magic is itching to lash out. This is nothing like when Peter's magic washes over him, gentle and calming. This is invasive and foreign, and it makes his magic restless.

Stiles turns down the aisle that contains supernatural zoology, humming as he looks at the titles. He's pretty sure the crocotta is native to India and Ethiopia, so he slides books on those regions from the shelves before grabbing a small book specifically dedicated to supernatural canines. 

"Is there one that needs to be killed?" Stiles asks, still perusing in case he's missed anything.

"No, I have a client who has one as a pet," Deaton says.

"What?" Stiles asks, turning to him in shock.

"Apparently it's been with her since childhood and is relatively tame," Deaton says. 

Stiles doesn't care about 'relatively' tame, he wouldn't let a man-eating dog-wolf/hyena-wolf in his home as a _pet_. He's so distracted by this alarming client of Deaton's that he doesn't notice the druid's moved closer until he's right there. Stiles startles, jerking back and hitting the shelf. Deaton reaches out, ostensibly to steady him, but the second he touches Stiles' arm, a shock shoots up Stiles' arm. He can't help the yelp he lets out, jumping back. 

Deaton's watching Stiles intently, so Stiles forces out a shaky laugh and says, "That's some serious static you've got going on, Jesus." Stiles presses the books into Deaton's arms, careful not to touch his skin again. "Calli can check you out up front, have a good day!" Stiles chirps and turns on his heel, all but fleeing to the staff room in the back corner of the library. 

The staff room is blessedly empty since it's only him and Calli working today, so he's able to collapse onto the couch, hanging his head between his knees as he struggles to take deep breaths. He's not sure if Deaton tried to curse him or what, but it was _something_. His magic is agitated under his skin, probably due to Stiles' own anxiety, and he takes deep breaths, trying to think calming thoughts. He imagines he's with Peter in the spare bedroom, meditating under the rune arrays. 

It takes longer than he'd like to admit without Peter's calming presence at his side, but eventually his heartbeat is back down. There's still anxiety buzzing through him, but it's a lower grade, a more manageable level. He wants to call Peter, but he knows he's working on the wards for Bianca today and can't be disturbed. He settles on texting him instead. What he wants to say is SOS SOS SOS, but that's a little extreme, even for him.

He settles on _Please call me when you're done._

There, that's not panicky at all, right? Stiles takes another deep breath, feeling his magic settle a little more. He's impressed with himself, his shields hadn't buckled at all under Deaton's assault. He feels shaky and a little off kilter, but he withstood whatever bullshit power move he'd tried to pull. That doesn't stop him from hiding in the staff room for another ten minutes until he's sure Deaton's left. 

When Stiles comes back to the front desk, Calli is reading, her hot pink Doc Martens propped up on the desk. Stiles knocks them off as he walks by. 

"Thanks for covering," he says.

"You're welcome," Calli says, then frowns when she looks up from her book. "Are you okay, bossman? You look really pale."

"Yeah, I'm good," Stiles says, flapping his hand at her. "Go ahead and take your lunch."

Calli keeps frowning at him for a few seconds, then shrugs and hops up. "I'm getting teriyaki, want anything?"

"If you bring me yakisoba I'll give you an extra ten minutes on your lunch," Stiles says.

Calli grins and salutes him on her way out the door.

Stiles feels better as the day goes on. Eating helps, and Stiles remembers what Peter said about keeping well-fed for his magic. Calli doesn't say anything, but she's smart and Stiles is pretty sure she put two and two together and figured out Stiles feels off because of Deaton. She doesn't ask, but she does drag the giant box of books she's sorting through out of the back and plunks herself down on the floor a few feet from Stiles, keeping him company for the rest of their shifts. He shows his appreciation by letting her come in late tomorrow.

By the time the library's closed, Stiles is less shaky. Still off, but less weak. He makes it home fine, but doesn't feel up to cooking, instead popping a Lean Cuisine in the microwave. Not his favorite, but if it's between that and cereal, he'd rather have something warm. He curls up on the couch with Basel, who's been following Stiles like a shadow since he got home, like he senses something happened.

He's almost done with his disappointing mac and cheese when his phone rings, playing How Soon is Now, the ringtone he'd set for Peter. Peter had looked very unimpressed with the theme from Charmed, but Stiles didn't care.

"Hey," Stiles says, picking up.

 _"Hello, Stiles,"_ Peter says. He sounds tired and Stiles wonders just how taxing dealing with Bianca and her wards was. _"You wanted me to call?"_

"Yeah," Stiles says. It seems a bit stupid now, running to Peter. But he's pretty sure Deaton tried to whammy him with something. "Deaton came to the library today."

There's a pause, then, _"Tell me everything."_ He sounds much more alert now.

Stiles tells him about how uncomfortable it was to have Deaton's magic poke at him, how foreign and cold it felt. When he gets to Deaton's touch sending a shock through his body, Peter actually growls. It's the most wolf-like thing Peter's done around him.

"I don't know what he did, it felt weird, though," Stiles says. "I'm all right now, but I was weird and shaky for a while."

 _"I'm coming over,"_ Peter says, voice deeper and rougher than Stiles has heard it before. Before Stiles can tell him that's not necessary, he's hung up. Stiles stares at the phone in his hand, then down at Basel.

"Werewolf manners," he grumbles. Basel meows. 

Stiles is expecting Peter's Mercedes, so when loud scratching comes from the back porch, he frowns. Basel hops off the couch and runs to the back door, meowing plaintively. Stiles peeks out the window and his jaw drops. On his back porch, pawing at the door, is a giant, tawny wolf. The wolf looks at Stiles and flashes blue eyes, and if Stiles' mouth weren't already hanging open, it would be now.

He unlocks the back door, saying, "You never told me you have a full wolf shift!" He closes and locks the back door behind Peter. He can't believe he ran all the way here through the preserve.

Peter doesn't answer, obviously, but crowds around Stiles like Basel does when he needs attention. Stiles hasn't exactly been around many wolves up close, but he thinks it's abnormal for them to be this huge, isn't it? Up to his waist seems excessive. It takes him a minute to realize that Peter is trying to herd him from the back door to his living room.

"What are you, a sheep dog?" Stiles grumbles, but goes where he's pushed until Peter nudges him onto the couch. "Okay? Happy?"

Apparently not, because a second later Peter is jumping up on the couch, pawing at Stiles until he gets with the program and lies down. As soon as he's horizontal, Peter crawls over him. It's intimidating, really fucking intimidating, to have a ginormous wolf hovering over him, those sharp teeth very close to his face, even though he rationally knows the wolf is Peter. 

Peter bends down, sniffing at Stiles' arm where Deaton touched, sneezing at whatever he finds. He smells up Stiles' chest, sniffing over his face, before burying his face in Stiles' throat with a whine. Peter flops down on Stiles, making him oof at the air being knocked out of him. He keeps his face hidden in Stiles' neck, rubbing his furred cheek against his skin. Stiles blinks in confusion, because nothing he's read about werewolves covers this (though werewolves are notoriously private about their customs, so who knows?). 

Stiles hesitantly reaches up, touching Peter's shoulder. Peter whines again, but doesn't move. Stiles takes that as permission to touch and slides his hand up Peter's shoulder, wrapping his arms around him. He positions them a little under Peter's neck because as much as he wants to feel the thick, soft fur there, he isn't suicidal enough to go near a wolf's throat, even one that likes him.

Peter rumbles on top of him, a deep sound vibrating in his chest. It's different from a growl, is inexplicably soothing, and Stiles finds himself truly relaxing for the first time since Deaton walked into the library. The remaining tension drains from his body as he turns his head, hiding his face in Peter's fur. From what he's read from the few books that exist on werewolves, this behavior is normal for wolves with their packs. They're known for physically taking comfort from each other staying close and sharing scents when one is hurt. But Stiles isn't in the Hale pack.

Basel hops up at the bottom of the couch, rubbing against Peter's flank, before settling down, pressed against Stiles' leg and Peter. Stiles closes his eyes and enjoys Peter's warmth, the way his magic is brushing over Stiles in soft, comforting pulses. Basel, whose magic as a familiar is something Stiles is finally starting to recognize, feels like a soothing balm at his side. He's content and comfortable, and it would be so easy to stay like this, but he has questions that need to be answered.

"Peter," Stiles says, then says it more seriously when he doesn't get a response. The wolf grumbles and pulls away enough to look down at him. "I need you to tell me what the deal is with you and Deaton."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things. First, this took longer and is shorter than I expected. Sorry about that, real life happens. 
> 
> Second, be advised there's mention of past rape in this chapter. It isn't between Peter and Stiles. See bottom notes for details on that if you're concerned.

Peter's shifted back from his wolf form and is now sitting at Stiles' kitchen table, wearing a pair of large sweats that Stiles had commandeered from an ex and a t-shirt he sleeps in. Both are overly large on Stiles, but fit Peter well enough. Stiles hands him a steaming mug of tea in a chipped BHPD mug he'd stolen from the station years ago. 

"I don't have any of your fancy steeping stuff, so tea bags are going to have to do," Stiles says.

Peter shrugs, and that alone tells Stiles that this isn't going to be a fun conversation. Peter never misses an opportunity to argue about tea. Stiles sits on the chair on the side of the table closest to Peter, not wanting to put a lot of distance between them for this. He misses the heat of the wolf. Peter is silent for a bit, sipping his tea, before he speaks.

"I had an apprentice before you," Peter says and honestly, that's not where Stiles expected this to go.

"Okay," Stiles says slowly. "Was that Deaton?"

Peter snorts at that. "No. Deaton's older than me, actually," Peter says, and oh, duh. "No, her name was Jennifer, and she was a druid."

"I thought druid and witch magic isn't similar enough for you to teach her?" Stiles says.

"For more advanced magic, yes, but the bare bones is similar," Peter says. "She came with high recommendations from the American Council of Druids and an eagerness to learn. I was young, cocky in my power, and impressed with myself that someone wanted to come and study under me." 

Peter pauses, face going dark. Stiles wants to reach out, but he's not sure how much his touch would be appreciated right now, so he keeps his hands clasped on the table.

"She started a "relationship" with my nephew, and by relationship I mean she put a curse on him to make him think he wanted to be with her," Peter says. Stiles' jaw drops.

"She mind raped him?" he asks.

"Yes," Peter says, sighing heavily. "And I didn't notice until months later. She used me to get close to the family, and used him to stay close."

"Why?"

"She wanted to align herself with one of the strongest packs in the country," Peter says. "And she wanted the nemeton."

"So she invaded your pack and raped your nephew all so she could have a stupid _tree_?" Stiles asks incredulously. 

Peter nods. "She wanted revenge against her former pack and needed the power to do that," he says. "And I was too arrogant to pay attention to the signs. By the time we figured it out, she and Derek had been...intimate." Stiles winces. Peter's lips twist in snarl. "Deaton knew."

"What?" Stiles asks, startled. "He knew she was abusing Derek?"

"He knew she was here for the nemeton and the connection to a powerful pack. He knew that the recommendation from the Council was a forgery. He knew that Derek wasn't a consenting party, and he did nothing," Peter says. 

Stiles feels sick to his stomach. He'd known that druids were all but useless in a crisis, but he didn't think Deaton would actually sit back and watch as someone was abused like that, as a pack was infiltrated.

"Why?" Stiles asks. "Why would he - why?"

"Non-interference," Peter snarls. "He only gets involved if it upsets his balance, and apparently assaulting my nephew and potentially destroying one of the strongest packs in the country isn't a grand enough disaster to warrant his assistance." 

"Don't take this the wrong way, but why didn't you kill him?" Stiles asks. Peter, while secretive, is known to be dangerous, to be the one to put threats in the ground.

"The Druid Council ordered me not to. They like to think they have the right to police the supernatural and said there would be 'consequences' if I took another life in addition to Jennifer's. They decided, in their infinite wisdom, that her life paid the debt," Peter says. His hands are clenching and unclenching in front of him on the table. Stiles reaches out, resting his hand on Peter's. Peter twists his wrist, threading their fingers together and taking a deep breath. "So Talia ordered me to leave Deaton alone."

"Jennifer's dead, then?" Stiles asks quietly. Peter grins and Stiles can see the rage hiding deep in him.

"She's dead. I sacrificed her to the nemeton she coveted so much and ripped her open from navel to throat," he says. 

A normal, sane person would recoil at such a casual admittance of murder, but Stiles has never been normal and 100% sane. He squeezes Peter's hand tighter.

"Good," he says. "Is that what he wants with me, then? To see if I'm powerful enough to interfere with?"

Peter runs his free hand over Stiles' arm, right where Deaton touched him. It makes Stiles shiver, but for an entirely different reason than when he was touched by the druid. Peter hums, and Stiles feels the familiar tingle of Peter's magic. 

"I think that's what he did, yes," Peter says. "He touched you to gauge your magic, and tried to startle you into showing more."

"So, he didn't curse me or anything?" Stiles asks.

"No, he would be dead right now if he had," Peter says, blue eyes flashing.

It's bizarrely comforting to know that Peter would kill for him. Stiles turns Peter's hand in his, tracing the veins, brushing his thumb over Peter's knuckles. He doesn't know what to say because 'I'm sorry' is weak in the face of what Jennifer has done, what Deaton has done, to the Hale family.

"Is Derek okay?" Stiles asks.

Peter sighs. "Mostly. It was years ago and he's been in therapy, so that's helped," Peter says. "Gun shy about dating, though I can understand why."

"Yeah, I bet," Stiles says. "I mean, I guess it makes sense now why the Hale pack doesn't have an emissary."

"We don't need an emissary. We have me," Peter says.

Stiles nods. He has about a million questions about that, about how a wolf can be an emissary, but that's for another time. He's still playing with the fingers of Peter's hand, and doesn't particularly feel like stopping.

After a few minutes of silence, Stiles asks, "Are you staying tonight?" Peter raises an eyebrow and Stiles can feel his face flush. "I just mean it's late and I don't know a lot about werewolves but it seems like the whole physical comfort rumor is true and I know I'm not pack, but it's been a heavy night and I know _I_ feel better when I'm not alone and...you know what? I'm just gonna stop talking."

Stiles tries to tug his hand away, face flaming, but Peter tightens his grip, refusing to let him pull away. 

"I would be happy to stay, sweetheart," Peter says. "You're right. Werewolves are tactile by nature, and we enjoy being around those we care about, especially during difficult times."

"Okay," Stiles says, swallowing hard. "Okay, good. I'm gonna lock up, bedroom is down the hall, the first door on the right."

Stiles turns quickly so he doesn't have to see Peter's smirking face, heading to the back door to make sure he'd locked it after Peter'd arrived. After double checking the front door, setting the alarm, and making sure Basel's bowl has water, Stiles flips off all the lights and heads to his room.

He doesn't know if he's expecting the man or the wolf, and isn't even sure what he'd prefer, but when he walks through his bedroom door, Peter is 100% human and 100% shirtless. He's lounging on Stiles' bed like he belongs there, his muscled body on full display, blanket pooled around his waist. Stiles can see the top of the sweatpants he's still wearing, thank fucking god for small mercies. 

Stiles turns the lights off quickly, because ogling Peter isn't what tonight's about and he isn't going to stare like a creep. He can only see the outline of shapes, thanks to the streetlamp outside, but he knows Peter can still easily see him in the dark. He still blushes as he changes into his pajama pants, but it's easier when he can't see Peter. He's a coward, so sue him. 

As soon as Stiles lies down, Peter's arms are around him, dragging him back against his firm chest. Peter's breath is warm against the back of Stiles' neck and it takes Stiles a few moments to relax into the embrace. Stiles is fairly cuddly person, always has been, but he's been single for a while, he doesn't hook up much, and Scott hasn't been around often for platonic snuggling time, so it takes him a second to get settled. When he does, he remembers just why he likes this so much. He doesn't know if it's actually helping Peter or if this is all but useless since Stiles isn't pack, but he's holding on tightly, so Stiles is willing to believe it's at least a little helpful.

Basel jumps up near Stiles' face, curling up in his customary spot next to Stiles' pillow. Stiles groans, burying his face in Basel's fur.

"What?" Peter asks.

"God, I need to find a new vet."

Peter snorts and presses his forehead against the back of Stiles' neck.

"Go to sleep, Stiles."

Stiles wastes about thirty seconds wondering if he's even going to be able to sleep, but it's been a taxing day, and Peter is warm behind him, and it takes almost no time at all for him to drift off. 

Stiles' alarm wakes him at 7:00 the next morning, which is earlier than he'd like, but if he had his way, the world would operate between 1:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. Peter's warm and solid next to him, lying on his stomach with his arm thrown around Stiles' waist. From this angle, he has a completely unobstructed view of the king cobra tattoo taking up the majority of Peter' back. It's done in black and white, yet is almost iridescent. Stiles wonders if that's because of the magic element. Before he can remind himself of how rude it is, he's tracing his fingers over the warm skin of Peter's back, following the coils of the snake.

"I've bitten off people's hands for less," Peter grunts, turning his head to look at Stiles, eyes barely slitted open. 

Stiles yanks his hand back. "Sorry!" he says. "God, that's so rude, I'm sorry. I was the kid who touched the hot burner, too."

"That doesn't surprise me in the slightest," Peter says. 

"Ha, ha," Stiles says, rolling out of bed with a groan. Basel makes a disgruntled noise at the bouncing mattress and rolls closer to Peter, butting his chin with his head. It's domestic and adorable and they're both such assholes.

Stiles showers quickly and is grateful that Peter still isn't lounging half naked in his bed when he's done. No, instead, once Stiles is dressed and more or less ready for work, he finds Peter in the kitchen standing over the stove. Stiles blinks but no, not a hallucination. Peter Hale is really in his kitchen cooking scrambled eggs.

"Your fridge is appalling," Peter says without turning around.

"I haven't grocery shopped in a few days," Stiles says.

"You have eggs, expired mayonnaise, and leftover Chinese food," Peter says, looking over his shoulder with a judgmental stare. "I seem to recall stressing the importance of healthy and consistent eating."

Stiles shrugs. "I usually have a doughnut or two at work," he says.

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and turns back to the eggs. 

"Okay, on the docket," Peter says, dishing up the eggs. "You need to grocery shop after work, because this is horrible. Call when you're done, because we're going to start on wards for you house."

"I thought you wanted to wait until I could do them all myself?" Stiles asks. Peter sets a plate of eggs in front of him.

"I did, but nosy druids sniffing around make me anxious," Peter says.

"Aw, you care about little old me," Stiles teases.

"Just eat your eggs," Peter says, rolling his eyes. "I hope you're still good with getting your focus tattooed, because you have an appointment with my niece this weekend."

"Your niece?" Stiles asks, taking a bite. "Fuck, these are good. How are your eggs better than mine? They're just eggs!"

"Your standards are so low," Peter says, shaking his head. "Yes, my niece, Cora. The only person nearby I would trust to complete a magical tattoo on your lovely skin."

Stiles blushes. He seems to do that a lot around Peter. He should work on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mention of past rape is Jennifer using magic to seduce Derek, making him unable to consent.


	5. Chapter 5

It turns out Stiles is good at laying wards, but he fucking hates it. He loves rune work and thinks it's beautiful, but creating it is a royal pain in the ass. There's a whole lot of intricate and delicate work, and while he can do it, he hates it with a passion. Peter's a lot more patient with Stiles than he thought he'd be, but he's pretty sure he's getting frustrated. He has Stiles draw out the runes he's going to be using on his house five times on paper before he lets him near the foundation of his house. The fire protection wards are easier than the others, but the complicated set of runes that makes it so no one can enter the house without permission take a bit to figure out. 

"I don't see why you don't do this, this is your specialty," Stiles grumbles. It's close to midnight and he and Peter are in his backyard. Stiles is crouched down, using a special tool of Peter's to etch the runes into the foundation of his house. 

"You aren't learning if I do it," Peter says.

"Yeah, but at least I'll know they're done right! And not worry about accidentally blowing my hand off or anything," Stiles says.

"You won't blow your hand off if you stop complaining and focus," Peter says.

Stiles grumbles under his breath, but goes back to his etching. It's close to 1:00 a.m. when he's finally done, and he's completed wiped, energy zapped from warding the home.

"You'll build up some stamina for it," Peter says, and Stiles is too tired to even make a joke about that. "For now, your house is protected, and that's what's important."

"Couldn't a strong magic user break them?" Stiles asks.

"It's possible. They'd have to be extremely strong though, especially with the power you put behind them," Peter says. "Deaton doesn't have the juice if that's what you're worried about."

"It wasn't really, but good to know," Stiles says. 

Stiles is lucky he doesn't work the next day, because he sleeps through his two alarms and only wakes up when Peter calls him, his customized Addams Family ringtone pulling Stiles to consciousness. 

"Hello?" Stiles says, not even opening his eyes.

 _"Well you sound just awful,"_ Peter says.

"You're such a charmer. How the hell did you get a reputation as a playboy?" Stiles says.

 _"I'm perfectly charming, thank you,"_ Peter says. _"Get ready, your appointment with Cora is in an hour."_

"Yes, Dad," Stiles mumbles.

 _"Oh Stiles, if you want to call me daddy, all you had to do was say so,"_ Peter says. Stiles squawks, spluttering denials, which just makes Peter laugh. _"You really are too easy. I'll be there to pick you up in a half hour."_

Peter hangs up before Stiles can call him an asshole. The asshole.

Stiles takes a quick shower and grabs a protein bar (so Peter won't bitch), and is ready right when Peter pulls into the driveway. Stiles had made Peter promise to come with him (Peter had probably planned on it anyway) because he's an absolute wimp when it comes to needles. Peter promised to drain his pain if it becomes too much, but Stiles is also pretty sure Peter is a sadist and wants to see Stiles' pain face.

Peter has a grocery bag with Gatorade and a pack of beef jerky and tells Stiles that tattooing can be hard on some people and it will help if he starts feeling weak or faint. It's...surprisingly sweet, and doesn't makes Stiles feel better about the process at all.

Cora works at a shop in downtown Beacon Hills, right between a florist and a bookstore. It's busy, which doesn't surprise Stiles for a Saturday, but does make him a bit nervous. His leg is bouncing in his chair in the waiting room, and after a few minutes, Peter grabs his leg and stills him, giving a pointed look.

"Sorry," Stiles says. "There are just a lot of people here..."

"Cora's station has a privacy screen she can put up. You won't even notice anyone else is here," Peter says.

"Peter!" 

Stiles looks up and sees a girl about his age coming out from the back of the shop. Peter stands and pulls her into a hug, pressing his cheek against hers. Her bare arms are covered in tattoos, and he can see the edge of the jungle cat peeking out from the neck of her shirt on her chest. Her lip and nose are pierced and she has a bunch of earrings in her ears. Stiles doesn't really see the resemblance to Peter until she looks at him with sharp, assessing eyes.

"So, this is the new trainee?" she asks. 

"Yep, Stiles Stilinski," Stiles says, holding out a hand. She looks amused, but takes it. "I think we might have had a class or two together in high school."

"If you did, Cora wouldn't remember," Peter says. "She spent more time skipping than she did in class."

"And yet, here I am with a successful job," Cora says with a shrug. "Come on back, I'm all set up."

Cora leads them through the shop to the back corner, where she has her chair and equipment. She already has the privacy screen ready and rolls it into place once Stiles is seated. Peter takes the spare chair next to him. 

"Okay, where are we putting this?" Cora asks. 

"Uh," Stiles says, looking over at Peter. "Does it make a difference?"

"Not particularly," Peter says. "Some people like to get it over their hearts or near their hands, but that's more a symbolic and stylistic choice than anything else. No one has found conclusive proof that it makes a difference where the tattoo is."

"Okay, I was thinking my shoulder then," Stiles says.

"Sure," Cora says. "Take off your shirt and I'll get a stencil ready."

Stiles tugs off his shirt and hands it to Peter trying not to be too self-conscious. He's grown out of that since high school, but sometimes when he's around someone ridiculously attractive, like Peter, those old insecurities come out to play. Peter rakes his eyes up Stiles' chest appreciatively, and winks. It makes Stiles relax, actually, having Peter joke with him so casually. Cora cuts into his line of sight and turns him around. She cleans his skin and carefully applies the stencil, then reclines the chair flat, having him lie on his stomach. 

"Not gonna lie, this isn't going to feel great over the bone," Cora says. "Try not to jerk or twitch. I know that's hard to control, but especially with magical tattoos, we need this to be precise."

"I'll do my best. Peter's entire responsibility today is pain management," Stiles says.

Cora snorts. "I hope you feel special. He usually only does that for family," Cora says. 

"What, really?" Stiles asks, looking over at Peter. Peter's glaring at Cora.

"Oh yeah," she says. "A pack member fell out of a tree and broke his arm and Peter said, 'The pain will help him learn not to do that again'."

"Well it did," Peter says. "He didn't climb too high again."

"He was eleven, Peter," Cora says.

"Oh my god, you're awful," Stiles says, cackling. 

"You already knew that," Peter says. "Cora, are we paying you to gossip or to work?"

Cora sticks out her tongue, but pulls on her gloves and starts setting up the ink.

"So this is ink that Peter's actually bewitched," Cora says. "It's specifically for focus tattoos or tattoos with a magical element. It'll help the magic flow better, basically."

"Sweet," Stiles says. "I didn't know that was a thing."

"I'll tell you how to do it some day," Peter says.

Stiles jumps when Cora turns the machine on, startled by the buzzing. Cora raises an eyebrow.

"No jumping or twitching, got it," Stiles says.

"I'll have Peter hold you down if I have to," Cora threatens. "And knowing him, he'll probably like it."

Stiles flushes and Peter groans.

"Cora," he says.

"Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on," she grumbles. "All right, I'm going to start, don't flail."

The first touch isn't as bad as Stiles had been expecting. It feels like a cat scratch a bit. It definitely gets worse as it goes, as she wipes off the spot she working on and goes over the lines again. It's not an overly large tattoo, probably the size of his hand, but it throbs. Peter takes most of the pain, but he doesn't want Stiles to get into too loopy of state where he wouldn't be able to say he needs a break or a drink of Gatorade, so he can't take too much. Still, Stiles feels lucky. He's a wimp when it comes to needles, he knows this, and is so grateful he has a werewolf pain drain. People who go without it are heroes.

Cora pauses about an hour and a half in when an irate client comes in screaming. She glances toward the front and sighs, telling them she'll be right back, and goes to deal with him. It gives Peter a chance to force Stiles to eat some jerky and drink some Gatorade. It takes ten minutes, and a fair bit of yelling, for Cora to come back, shaking her head.

"Some people, I swear," she says. "If your artist tells you not to go swimming right after you get a tattoo, don't go swimming. It's not our fault he couldn't listen and now has an infection."

"Gross," Stiles says.

"Damn right," Cora says. "No hot tubs for you for a while."

"I'll try to restrain myself," Stiles says.

The rest of the appointment goes by pretty quickly, and as soon as Cora connects all the lines, it's like he can feel something settle in himself. The power that's always thrumming under his skin feels less wild, less like it's going to accidentally burst out at any moment. He can't wait to get back to Peter's and try some of his spells.

Peter won't let Stiles pay after Cora has wrapped the tattoo and given him the care instructions. He waves off Stiles' protests, reminding him just how much he made warding Bianca's building. They almost make it out of the shop before Cora stops them.

"Oh, by the way, Mom wants you both at the house for dinner tonight," Cora says.

Peter's eyes narrow. "Oh does she?"

"I'm just the messenger," Cora says. "She said she wanted to meet 'whoever is taking up all his time'."

Stiles feels a surge a guilt. For the past few months, he's been spending pretty much every day with Peter. Wolves are pack animals, right? Is Stiles the reason Peter isn't seeing his pack?

"Stop that," Peter says firmly, probably smelling the guilt rolling off him. "I've done nothing I haven't wanted to." He turns his attention back to Cora. "Tell her we'll be there, and she had better keep a civil tongue."

"Yeah, I'm not telling that to my alpha," Cora says. "See you tonight." With that, she turns on her heel and heads back deeper into the shop.

"I probably should have asked you if you're free tonight," Peter says when they exit the shop and head to his car. "Though considering you were planning on spending most of the day at my house, I figured you were."

"Yeah, that's fine. Meeting one of the most influential and powerful packs in North America, no big deal," Stiles says. 

"My sister is just nosy," Peter says, unlocking the car. Stiles sits gingerly, careful not to put too much pressure on his back. "And protective of her pack."

"Great, protective werewolves, I'm sure my spleen will stay intact," Stiles says.

"Please, we would go for the jugular if we were going to kill you," Peter says.

"I hate you sometimes."

Stiles' worries about meeting the Hales get pushed to the back burner once they get to Peter's house. Peter has him pull up his shirt and take off the saran wrap from his tattoo. Peter murmurs a few words, his hand over over the tattoo, and a curiously warm sensation pulses through Stiles. When he looks over his shoulder in the mirror, he sees that the tattoo looks almost completely healed, with just a few scabbed areas instead of an open wound.

"Whoa," Stiles says. Cora had told him it would scab and flake, but this is weeks ahead of where it should be.

"Healing magic isn't my strong suit," Peter says, and he actually looks a bit sheepish at that. "Someone more skilled would be able to heal it completely."

"Still, thanks," Stiles says. "I wasn't looking forward to trying to sleep on that."

"You're welcome," Peter says. He briefly squeezes the back of Stiles' neck before moving away.

Peter and Stiles set up in the meditation room, sitting cross-legged on the pillows, to work on Stiles' shields. Stiles' magic always comes when he calls it, but this time it's less like he's trying to fight for it to do what he wants. It flows with his thoughts, with his desires, wrapping himself in a protective cocoon. It takes only a half hour until Peter can't feel any magical residue on him at all.

"That's wonderful, sweetheart," Peter says proudly. Stiles can't stop grinning. "Let's move to the living room and see how it goes without the wards I have in here."

It only takes Stiles five minutes longer without the wards Peter has for concentration and focus. The tattoo, his focus, tingles with power, a comforting presence. Peter has him hold his shields for as long as he can while doing various tasks, like cooking and reading ("I draw the line at cleaning your kitchen, Peter."). The goal is for it to become second nature to have his magic wrapped around him, to be protected and insulated. He struggles a bit when he's reading, but by the end of the afternoon, he's gone four hours without slipping. 

"You're doing magnificently," Peter says, briefly squeezing the back of his neck. "You are constantly exceeding my expectations, Stiles."

Stiles can't help but feel warm whenever Peter compliments him like that. Maybe it's because he doesn't dole them out to others very often. Maybe it's because he doesn't try to keep the fondness out of his voice. Maybe it's both, combined with the fact that Stiles wants to turn into a puddle of a goo whenever Peter uses his terms of endearment. Stiles is easy, what can he say.

"You're a good teacher," he says with a shrug.

"Don't diminish your own talents. You're succeeding because you're you," Peter says. Before Stiles can think of a response for that, Peter continues, "Grab your shoes, we need to leave for dinner in ten minutes."

And just like that, Stiles is back to being nervous about meeting the Hales.


	6. Chapter 6

The Hale house is situated deep in the preserve, down a half mile of winding, wooded driveway. Stiles had come out here once as a dare, and his mom had given him a dressing down for that. She'd told him werewolves aren't spectacles and shouldn't be treated as such. The shame of that stuck with him for a while.

There are a lot of cars in the driveway, but the Hales have a big family. Which means Stiles has no idea how many people are inside. At some point, Peter says he'll be able to throw his magic like a mystical sonar and be able to read how many people are nearby. It sounds super cool to Stiles, and also way outside of his current pay grade. 

No one comes out to greet them, even though everyone probably knowing they're already here. Stiles doesn't know if that's a good thing or not, but Peter seems unconcerned. Then again, not a whole lot seems to really concern Peter. They walk up to the front porch empty handed, which throws Stiles off. He'd always been taught to bring wine or dessert or something when you're invited over, but Peter didn't want to. He said, "If she wants to give us last minute notice, then she can deal with supplying the wine her damn self." Stiles doesn't know if he wants to unravel that particular sibling rivalry thread.

Peter doesn't bother knocking, just lets them in, and Stiles' first reaction is pure chaos. There's a dark haired woman chasing after two kids, probably five years old, who are running around naked and covered in what looks like lipstick. A man who Stiles is pretty sure is Talia's husband, David, has his phone between his shoulder and his ear, reading from a file open in his hands as he paces the living room. There's someone shouting deeper in the house, something about using up all the hot water, clattering from the kitchen, and the deep pounding bass of bad 2000s trance music.

"I thought werewolves have sensitive hearing?" Stiles asks.

"We do," Peter says, grimacing. "That's Ashley. She's human and when she's in a mood, she likes to play loud music to be obnoxious."

Peter puts a hand low on Stiles' back, steering him from the living room and down the hall, which opens up into a huge, bright kitchen. Stiles hasn't seen anything this pristine and fancy outside of magazines. Cora is sitting on one counter, peeling an orange with her claws, while someone who can only be Derek is peeking into the oven, checking on what smells like salmon. It smells delicious, and Stiles' stomach rumbles despite his nerves.

"Hey, Stiles," Cora says, waving from the counter. Derek's back tenses, and Stiles' knot of anxiety grows.

"Hey," Stiles says, waving back feebly. 

"How's the back feeling?" she asks.

"Peter did his fancy healing mojo, so it doesn't suck nearly as much as it did earlier," Stiles says.

"Did he now?" Cora asks, waggling her eyebrows at them. Peter huffs.

"Where's your mother?" he asks.

"She's in her office, talking to Bernard," Cora says. "He's getting pushy about the campaign rally again."

"Talia is running for senator," Peter says in response to Stiles' confused look. "Against Gerard Argent."

Stiles' eyebrows fly up at that. Gerard Argent is a well-known arms dealer and businessman, notoriously conservative. He's funneled hundreds of thousands of dollars into anti-werewolf legislation, and recently started targeting the supernatural community at large. When he'd announced he was running for the senate seat being vacated by someone not looking to run again, it had sent a wave of panic through the supernatural community. So to have a very prominent werewolf running against him...wow.

"I don't envy her," Stiles says. 

"I personally think it would be much easier to just kill him and get it over with, but Talia thinks that's 'sending the wrong message'," Peter says. Cora snorts. 

Derek is still not facing them, seemingly very interested in what's on the stove. Cora frowns and kicks him in the thigh, making him glare over at her. She jerks her head toward Stiles and Peter, completely unsubtle, but it gets her point across. Derek seems to steel himself before turning to look at Stiles. His jaw is tense and yeah, Stiles is used to people not liking him, but usually he has to do something before he gets this level of distaste from someone. 

"It's nice to meet you, Stiles," Derek says through gritted teeth. 

Stiles kind of wants to call him out on the most blatant lie he's ever heard, but that's probably not the way to make a good impression on the Hales, so he just nods and says, "Likewise."

Stiles is pretty sure Derek's tension is because he's a magic user. He tries not to be offended considering Derek's history, but damn, it's hard. Stiles almost been clawed all the hell when a classmate in high school had first been turned, but he didn't harbor any hatred of werewolves over it. 

Derek turns back to the stove, making Cora let out an irritated noise. When Stiles glances at Peter, he's frowning also. Great.

"Come on," Peter says, a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "I'll give you a tour of the house."

Stiles is grateful for the out, letting Peter steer him out of the kitchen. He hears Cora hiss something at Derek, but he isn't sure what it is.

Peter leads him down another hall, pointing out the family room, the door to Talia's study, door to the basement. Upstairs are bedrooms and a library that makes Stiles' jaw drop. 

"And I thought your library is massive," he says in awe.

"Mine is better," Peter says.

"It's not a library competition," Stiles says.

Peter rolls his eyes. "I mean, as far as rare and valuable books on magic go, mine has more selection. There's a lot of Dean Koontz in here," he says.

Stiles snorts.

Peter leads him back downstairs, wincing as they pass the room with the loud music playing. He takes him down to the basement, which Stiles thinks is odd, until he points out all the rune arrays carved into the walls and ceiling.

"Whoa," Stiles says. He'd love to use a bigger, more impressive word, but he's struck a bit dumb at the moment.

Stiles has never seen rune work this complicated. There are some he doesn't even recognize, and he gets a headache even thinking about how long and how much energy this would have taken. 

"I didn't feel any of these when we got here," Stiles says.

"You were invited," Peter says. "And had no ill intent. If someone has one or both of those strikes against them...well, let's say it won't end well for them."

And Stiles...Stiles probably shouldn't be attracted to that, but he's always had a thing for power.

Someone upstairs shouts, "Dinner!" and stomps, making Stiles jump. 

"Come on. Derek may be a grouch, but his salmon is divine," Peter says, nudging Stiles towards the stairs.

Peter is right on both counts. The salmon is to die for, as are the potatoes, salad, and prawns. Derek is also still a grouch. He is almost perpetually glaring at his plate, and shoots Stiles inscrutable looks every once in a while. 

The rest of the Hales are perfectly nice. Laura, who it turns out is the woman that was chasing the lipstick-covered kids earlier, sits at the end of the table with her wife, both of them trying to make sure their kids get more food in their mouths than on the table. They join conversation when they can, but most of their attention is, understandably, on their kindergartners. David sits next to the empty chair at the head of the table, asking Stiles questions about his job, how his father is doing, if Peter is giving him too much shit. Cora sits across from Stiles, Peter at his side, and chats about her upcoming trips for tattoo conventions. Ashley, who it turns out is a distant cousin living with them, even chimes in a few times, though she seems more intent on reading the novel she'd brought down with her.

Talia doesn't join them until halfway through the meal, which Stiles thinks is a little rude considering she's the one who insisted they come, but whatever. She walks in and takes a seat before Stiles can worry if he's supposed to get up and shake her hand (what is werewolf protocol? He has no idea). She gives him a tight smile and introduces herself as she dishes up food.

"I apologize for the delay. My call went longer than I expected," Talia says.

"That's fine," Peter says. "We were enjoying the quiet." He says it like a joke, with a teasing lilt to his voice, but his grin doesn't reach his eyes. Talia's answering smile doesn't either. Great.

Luckily, conversation isn't too awkward. Talia talks with David mostly, or listens intently to whatever is being said. She tries to pull Derek into conversation a few times, but he just grunts. Stiles has a feeling that him being invited by Talia isn't sitting well with Derek. Cool.

Laura's kids start making a fuss after dinner, so she and her wife take them into the living room to play board games. Derek takes that as an excuse to leave and slinks out. Ashley follows, nose still in her book.

"That's fine, I've got the dishes, no problem!" Cora calls after them.

"We'll take care of dishes," Talia says. "Why don't you and Stiles go to the family room for a bit?"

Stiles recognizes an order when he's given one. He glances at Peter, who doesn't look thrilled, but nods anyway. Cora shrugs, probably happy to not be on dish duty. It doesn't escape Stiles' attention that the family room is as far from the kitchen as you can get on the main floor. Talia closes the dining room door behind them.

"Our house is old," Cora says conversationally as they walk down the hall. They end up being the only ones in the family room. "Lots of cool features. Peter's favorite is the moulding." She closes the door behind them and hops up on the back of the sofa, hand hovering over an old fashioned heating vent. "This is mine."

Cora flips the metal switch on the side, opening the grate, letting the voices from the kitchen flow in. Stiles grins.

_"You showed him our wards?"_ Talia says.

_"He isn't going to hurt us,"_ Peter says.

_"You'll excuse me if I don't find your opinion comfort, given your track record."_

Cora and Stiles both wince at that.

_"You trusted Jennifer, too. I seem to recall weekly lunches and shopping together,"_ Peter says scathingly.

_"If you think - "_

_"I think we might need to take a breather."_ Stiles recognizes that as David. 

_"Fine,"_ Talia snaps, and Stiles is honestly surprised she's even listening to the suggestion. 

There's some shuffling that suggests they're moving around before Cora flips the vent shut, dropping down to sit next to Stiles on the couch.

"Well, that's lovely," Cora says. "So, are you and Peter boning?"

Stiles chokes on his tongue, coughing a few times while Cora cackles delightedly. 

"What? No! He's training me! Why would you think that?" Stiles asks. 

"Oh, no reason. He just spends all his time with you, praises you more than I've heard him do before, brags about his genius apprentice. Oh, and he's always staring at your ass," Cora says. "And you have giant heart eyes whenever you look at him."

Stiles sputters, eyes wide. Look, he knows he isn't the most subtle person, but god he didn't think it was quite so obvious that he's harboring a ridiculous crush on Peter. Before he can say anything ( _deny, deny, deny!_ ), the family room door opens. Peter raises an eyebrow at them, probably at Stiles' red face and stuttering, and Cora's grin.

"You're a menace," Peter says to Cora, before turning to Stiles. "We're going to head out."

"Okay," Stiles says, standing quickly, as if getting away from Cora now will make everything she said untrue. 

"Talk to you later, Uncle Peter. Bye, Stiles," she says, giving a little wave as he walks out. 

Stiles waits until they're in the car and down the driveway before he says, "So...that could have gone better."

"It could have gone worse," Peter says. "My sister isn't the warmest woman in the world."

"That's what'll help her be a senator," Stiles grumbles. Peter snorts. "Am I making things harder on you? Causing problems with your pack?"

"No," Peter says immediately. "Don't worry about Talia. She doesn't affect what we do."

"She could order you to stop training me, couldn't she?" Stiles asks. "I mean, she's your alpha."

"She could," Peter says. "But that doesn't mean I would listen." Stiles stares, making Peter glance over with a grin. "I've never been a particularly good beta."

Well, Stiles doesn't really know what to say to that.

\---

Stiles spends most of the next day at Peter's, reading up about divination. Peter isn't a fan, he says it isn't a reliable branch of magic, and even if you do get a glimmer of something, the future isn't set in stone and seeing ahead can cause more damage than good. He still wants Stiles to know about it, though. Give him a solid foundation in all aspects of magic and all that. Stiles thinks it's kind of interesting, reading tea leaves and tarot cards and crystal balls, but not in a way that actually speaks to him. He agrees with Peter (and Hermione), that's it's very imprecise and not at all practical.

Peter doesn't feel like cooking that night, so he's running out to get takeout while Stiles keeps reading. He's caught up in the accounts of a 16th century seer, Basel purring in his lap and occasionally kneading at his thigh, when his dad calls. 

"Hey, daddio," Stiles answers, not taking his eyes off the page. "What's up?"

_"Hey, kiddo,"_ the sheriff says. _"I haven't heard from you in a while. Just calling to make sure everything's okay."_

"Yeah, I've just been at Peter's a lot," Stiles says distractedly, then winces. He definitely hasn't told his dad about Peter. He marks his place in the book and sets it aside, having a feeling this conversation is going to need his undivided attention.

_"Who's Peter?"_ the sheriff asks. 

"Uh, Peter Hale," Stiles says. "He's kind of teaching me to control my magic."

There's silence on the line. Stiles loves his dad, he does, but he has some very old fashioned views on magic. Werewolves and banshees he's fine with, but magic always makes a vein in his forehead pulse. That's mostly why Stiles has been putting this conversation off for so long.

_"Stiles,"_ the sheriff says, voice dangerously calm. _"I hope you're kidding."_

"Uh, no," Stiles says. "See, I found this cat, and - "

_"Damn it, Stiles, you're smarter than this!"_

Stiles blinks. Not quite the reaction he'd expected. Wariness, yes, but not being yelled at like an errant child.

"Dad, look, I know you think magic is sketchy, but it's natural, okay? It's just something I was born with," Stiles says. "It's something about me that you're just going to have to accept and not be all Vernon Dursley about."

_"Not when it killed you mom, I don't!"_ the sheriff says.

This times it's Stiles' turn to be quiet. He and his dad don't mention his mom, not often. Especially not about her dying, when one of her last acts was trying to strangle Stiles before she killed herself.

"Mom died from dementia complications," Stiles says evenly.

_"She didn't come by that naturally! Her magic burned her up and drove her insane!"_

"What are you talking about?" Stiles asks. There's something very close to panic settling in his chest.

_"She didn't want it. She couldn't control it and it killed her,"_ the sheriff says.

Stiles...can't deal with that right now. His world, his entire view of his mom is being flipped on its head. He can revisit that later and try to reconcile that, but right now he has a very angry alive parent and that takes priority.

"Okay, but shouldn't that mean you want me to learn to control this? So it doesn't do that to me too?" Stiles asks. "Not to mention, how could you keep a secret like that from me? Did you think that doesn't affect me, too?"

_"Magic is dangerous, Stiles. You're going to stop this now,"_ the sheriff says. He's using the voice he uses on kids he finds vandalizing the abandoned train depot, and suddenly Stiles is so, so angry. 

"No, I'm not," he says.

_"Excuse me?"_

"You have no right to tell me to do that," Stiles says.

_"I'm your father, I have every right!"_

"I am an adult! I've been taking care of myself like an adult since I was ten years old!" Stiles shouts. He hadn't meant to say that, he really hadn't but it's flowing out of him now and he can't stop it. "When you were too busy with work and drinking over Mom's death, I was taking care of myself! You haven't had the right to try to lecture me in a long ass time!"

_"Stiles - "_

"No. You don't get to just drop this bomb that you've been hiding from me for over twenty years, then demand to decide what I do with my life," Stiles says. "I just - I can't talk to you right now, okay?"

_"Listen - "_

"I'm hanging up now. I love you."

Stiles may be pissed, but he can't not say that. Ever since he was a kid, even when they were fighting, he always made sure to tell his dad he loved him before he left for work or went to bed. He's already lost one parent, and being the sheriff is a dangerous job. He wouldn't want his last words to his dad to be anything other than 'I love you'.

His dad is smart enough not to try to call him back. Stiles doesn't know how he'd respond but it wouldn't be good. He collapses back onto the couch, pressing his hands over his eyes. Basel climbs up his chest and bats at his hands, not stopping until Stiles gives in and scratches behind his ears. 

This is...Stiles doesn't know what this is. His feelings and memories of his mom are complicated. He remembers them having picnics in the backyard and helping her plant roses. He also remembers her in the hospital, screaming that he was trying to kill her. He remembers her hands around his throat as she'd tried to squeeze the life out of him. 

He's still sitting on Peter's couch, clinging to Basel, when he hears the front door open. Peter calls out that he's back and he comes bearing gifts of fried rice, but Stiles can't answer. Peter appears a few minutes later, frowning when he spots Stiles. He's sure he looks like a mess, wild eyed, clutching at his cat.

"Stiles?" Peter asks carefully He sets the food down and sits down on the coffee table opposite Stiles.

"Did you know about my mom?" Stiles asks. 

"What?" Peter asks.

"I'm not fucking around, Peter. Did you know?" The magical world is small, it wouldn't be a stretch. 

"Stiles, I have no idea what you're talking about," Peter says.

"My mom, she..." Stiles swallows hard, fighting back the tears. "My dad said she had magic. He said she didn't want it and it burned her up and drove her crazy."

Peter's eyes soften. He moves to the couch, placing a hand on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles shudders at the contact, leaning in. Peter takes it as an invitation and pulls Stiles against him, all but wrapping him in his arms. Basel doesn't look thrilled to lose his perch on Stiles' chest, but he rearranges himself in Stiles' lap, rubbing his face against his stomach.

"It can happen," Peter says softly. "If someone has enough power and rejects that part of themselves, it can eat at them and their mind. It looks for a release and when it's denied that...well, bad things can happen."

"What if I'm susceptible to that because of her? I mean, if I got my magic from her, that can happen? Fuck Peter, what if that happens to me? What if I go crazy and - "

"Stiles," Peter says, interrupting before Stiles can wind himself up too much. He cradles Stiles' face in his hands like he's something precious. "I would never let anything happen to you," he says fiercely. "You aren't fighting your magic. You're learning to control it. It doesn't control you, yes?"

Stiles swallows hard and nods. "Okay," he says softly, clearing his throat. "Okay."

"And I'm sorry about your mother," Peter says softly.

Stiles closes his eyes and nods. "Me too," he says.

"I'll reach out to some of my contacts, see if they've ever dealt with something like that, okay?" Peter asks. 

Stiles nods again. Peter sighs and presses a kiss to the top of Stiles' head, gathering him close to his chest. Neither of them move for a long time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay a few things! The rating has changed because there be smut ahead! Also, there is a sex scene with Chris, Peter, and Stiles, but it isn't romantic. This is still a steter fic. 
> 
> I'm not thrilled with how this turned out, but it's as good as it's gonna get.

Stiles throws himself into learning magic after the conversation with his dad. Yeah, he can admit it shook him, but instead of scaring him away from magic, it's only spurred him on. He refuses to let what happened to his mom happen to him. Potion making is dull as fuck, though he discovers he's great with healing magic when he accidentally cuts his hand on an athamae. Peter calmly makes sure he isn't bleeding to death, then walks him through a basic healing spell. His skin knits back together right in front of his eyes, and fuck it's cool.

A wolf pack in the Nevada desert is having a bit of a problem with a haunting, so they've commissioned protective talismans for their entire pack. Peter enlists Stiles' help in creating them, which makes him a bit apprehensive at first. What if he fucks it up and accidentally invites the spirit in or something? Peter promises he'll check Stiles' work though, which helps. 

Stiles is also worried it's going to be as mind-numbingly dull as rune work, but he's pleasantly surprised. He can feel the energy of the talisman pulsing in his hand, can feel his intent seeping into it as he works, empowering it with his belief and will for it to protect the wearer. Peter raises his eyebrows when he inspects the first one Stiles created, and for a moment he thinks he's fucked it up, but then Peter looks at him with pride.

"This is incredibly strong, especially for a first creation," Peter says, turning the talisman over in his hands. "You could probably make a living off of selling these alone if you wanted to."

Stiles grins. It always feels good to earn Peter's approval, especially since he says himself that he doesn't hand out praise easily. Stiles feels...useful, and that's something new for him. In the way, obnoxious, and a trip hazard, yes. Not not useful.

Peter inspects every single one of the talismans Stiles made, and only makes one small correction to the first one. Other than that, they're perfect. Stiles is aware he's grinning like a lunatic, but he doesn't care. It feels _good_ , pouring his magic into something like this. It feels good to be doing something well.

There are plenty of magics he and Peter haven't even touched yet. Black magic, for one. He doesn't know how Peter feels about blood magic and necromancy, but that's advanced enough that he won't have to worry about it for a while anyway. 

Sex magic is...sex magic is something Stiles has a huge interest in, and he's only mildly ashamed to admit it. Yeah, everything he's read makes it out to be a very morally grey area, depending on how uptight the writer is, but that's fine, Stiles is a morally grey individual. He'll work up the nerve to ask Peter about it eventually (he has the feeling Peter is waiting to see how long it takes for him to bring it up) and just work on healing for now.

It's like the universe is conspiring with him (or against him? He really isn't sure which) because only a few weeks into his studying of healing, Peter gets a call. They're in Peter's library, sitting at their desks, and Stiles is instantly intrigued by the smirk on Peter's face when he sees who's calling.

"Christopher," Peter says, answering the phone. That smarmy quality in his voice isn't rare, but it always is interesting. "How lovely to hear from you."

Stiles sets down his pen and leans closer, shamelessly eavesdropping. Peter winks at him.

"Well yes, I assume it's business. It's not like you and I call to chat about oatmeal recipes," Peter says.

Stiles can barely make out a frustrated groan down the end of the line. He hears that from a lot of people interacting with Peter. Peter's smirk loses a bit of its playful edge, and that makes Stiles pay more attention.

"Curses like that are extraordinarily rare. Who told you this?" A pause, the person on the other end of the line speaking. "Hmm. Mary's work is trustworthy in general, though I'd want to take a look myself to make sure she was correct. If so, then yes, the ritual she gave you is probably going to be your best bet."

More murmurs, and Peter glances at Stiles, a thoughtful look on his face.

"No, actually, I have an apprentice now. He and I would be more than capable of handling it. I need to ask him, though. This isn't something I would try to force him to do," Peter says. "I'll speak with him and call you back."

Another murmur.

"Of course. Discretion is in my contract," Peter says, then hangs up. Stiles looks at him expectantly. Thankfully, Peter doesn't keep him hanging. "It seems a contact of mine has a bit of a problem with a curse."

Stiles perks up. He and Peter haven't even gotten close to curses and curse breaking yet. 

"I'm not stoked that he's cursed," Stiles says quickly. "I just think it's an interesting subject."

"It is," Peter says, looking entirely too amused at Stiles' embarrassment. "Christopher seems to have pissed off a witch and gotten himself cursed, if Mary's to be believed. She does tend to be reliable with this sort of thing. It's all very stereotypical, but the witch knew Chris doesn't place a high value on his own life, so the curse ties in his daughter.

"Her length of life is now directly tied to his. For every year he lives, one year will be taken off her life. If he tries to kill himself, odds are the daughter will die, too," Peter says. Stiles stares. "Yes, it's very antiquated. Not at all a good representation of modern day witches."

"Jesus," Stiles says. "Okay, so how do you go about breaking a curse like that?"

"It calls for a lot of power and involves a rather...intimate ritual," Peter says. 

"Intimate...do you mean sex magic?" Stiles blurts out.

"Not the most elegant name, but yes," Peter says. "It's a strong curse that preys on life force and human connection. There's really only one type of energy that can counteract that."

"Okay," Stiles says slowly. "Details?"

"I'll find the spell book and let you read it over, but it boils down to releasing the energy created by the sexual encounter. You, Christopher, and I will ...engage in the act, and I will direct the energy to break the curse. You, being an exceptionally powerful being, will act as the conduit, since you being there at all will greatly amplify the power."

Stiles swallows hard and nods. The idea of being with Peter in any capacity is exciting, but especially in a ritual, to feel the power flowing through them, that thought appeals to him.

"I won't force you," Peter says. "But if it helps, Christopher is definitely not hard on the eyes."

"Oh I am all on board," Stiles says, not at all able to hide his excitement. "This isn't exactly a hardship."

Peter smirks, like he knew Stiles would feel like that. "I suppose I should actually show you what he looks like," Peter says. He pulls out his phone, tapping for a few moments, before handing it over to Stiles. It's a Google image search results page and yeah, easy on the eyes is an understatement. Chris is a fucking silver fox. Stiles glances up at the search bar and his eyes widen when he sees the full name.

"Christopher _Argent_?" Stiles says.

"Yes, he's a bit of the black sheep of his family. Publicly, Gerard paints them all as a happy family, but he disowned Chris a long time ago. He had a revelation about his father's deep rooted prejudices when he got older, and there was a bit of a family rift as a result," Peter says, getting up to pull a book from one of his shelves. He hands it over to Stiles, page open to the ritual. "Will that be a problem?"

"What? Oh, no, that's fine. I'm just surprised he would accept a magical solution is all," Stiles says.

"He's worked hard to unlearn that hate Gerard instilled in him growing up," Peter says. "And I'm sure there's nothing he wouldn't do for his daughter." Stiles nods. Makes sense. "Can I call him back and tell him we accept?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Go for it."

Peter nods, and looks surprisingly grateful. Stiles wonders if Chris is one of the rare people Peter would consider a friend. Peter calls Chris back and they hammer out dates and details, while Stiles reads over the ritual. Holy shit. Hoooooly shit. He just signed up for a magical threesome with Peter and Chris Argent. Probably not the ideal way to end his sexual dry spell, but hey, he isn't complaining.

Chris Argent lives a few hours away, so Stiles requests a couple of days off. He's sure performing magic as big as this is going to take a lot out of him, and he doesn't want to stumble back into work the next day half dead after a mystical threesome and a bunch of travel time. Stiles rarely takes time off, so his boss is just happy he's using some of his PTO. He didn't tell her he's taking it off for sex magic, though. Brenda is understanding, but only so far. 

Peter drives, because he wants nothing to do with Stiles' jeep (which, rude). It's comfortable though, and if Stiles weren't so keyed up on nerves and excitement, he might have nodded off in Peter's soft, heated seats. 

"Does this make me a prostitute? I mean, it kinda does," Stiles says. 

"I guess technically. Though magic prostitute would sound wonderful on a business card," Peter says.

"It would," Stiles says, bobbing his head. "I'd order those. 'Stiles Stilinski: Sex Magician'."

Peter snorts, but reaches over and sets a hand on Stiles' knee, stilling his bouncing leg.

"I understand you're nervous," Peter says. "But this is a relatively low-risk ritual. And I wouldn't let anything happen to you."

"I know that," Stiles says. And he does. His stress level about the dangers of this is at a zero. "The whole magical threesome thing is just new."

Peter squeezes his knee before taking his hand back to turn the corner onto a residential street.

"It can be nerve-wracking the first time," Peter says. "But I can promise, you'll enjoy every second of it."

"Oh I don't doubt that at all," Stiles says. "You seem the type."

"The type?" Peter asks with a raised brow.

"Yeah, the cocky, one-night-with-me-ruins-you, gotta be the best of the best, type," Stiles says.

"Thought about it a lot, have you?" Peter asks with a wink. 

Stiles shrugs, not at all willing to talk about how often he touches himself to the thought of Peter taking him apart. Luckily, he's saved having to answer by Peter pulling into the driveway. The house looks like every other house on the block. Suburban, manicured lawn, unnecessarily large SUV in the driveway. Much more humble than the sprawling mansion Gerard Argent owns.

Peter has Stiles carry in the duffel bag of supplies ("Perks of being an intern.") and they walk up to the house. As soon as the door opens, revealing a tried Chris Argent, Stiles can feel the lingering wrongness on him, and if he focuses, can even see a dirty brown tinge to the aura around him. So, that's what a curse feels like. If Stiles gets a vague headache even being near him, he can't imagine how Chris must be feeling. Stiles clamps down tight of his shields, blocking the bleed through from the curse. 

"Peter," Chris says, shaking Peter's hand. He sounds relieved, that he hadn't thought Peter would actually show. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course," Peter says. "Chris, this is my apprentice, Stiles."

Stiles shakes Chris' hand, and knows his skin would be crawling with wrongness if he weren't shielding so hard.

"It's nice to meet you," Chris says.

"Sorry it's not under better circumstances," Stiles says. Chris winces a little. 

"Come in," he says, standing aside.

Chris leads them through the house, down the stairs to a finished basement. It's bright and welcoming, and has a mattress on the floor in the middle of the room, all the other furniture pushed to the side. 

"If this is going to be as messy as you say, I'd rather ruin the floor down here than in my bedroom," Chris says.

"Understandable," Peter says, then turns to to Stiles. "Let's get set up."

Chris' hardwood floors are lovely, and it's a shame to ruin them, but if it's ruined floors or being cursed, Stiles knows which one he prefers. It takes Peter nearly an hour to painstakingly paint the protective circle, complete with runes etched into the ground to keep any energy from escaping. Stiles paints some of the simpler components, but is happy to leave the intricate details to Peter. 

Stiles swallows hard when Chris strips out of his shirt so they can paint runes onto his skin. The man's hot like burning, okay? And knowing they're all about to get very intimate has Sties excitable, so sue him. Peter narrates what he's doing as he goes, and Stiles has the feelings it's for Chris' benefit as much as his.

"This will help keep you from being susceptible to similar curses in the future," Peter says, painting a rune over Chris' sternum. When he gets to his shoulder, "This is to help the flow of energy."

When he's done, when the runes adorning Chris' chest and back are dried and ready, what they're about to do really sinks in. Stiles fidgets and Chris looks almost as uncomfortable as he is. Peter sighs, stepping up behind Stiles. Stiles' breath hitches as Peter presses his body against Stiles' back, hands resting low on his hips.

"I know that these aren't the best circumstances," Peter says. "But that doesn't mean this can't be enjoyable. Don't be shy, Christopher. We both know he's exactly your type, isn't he?" 

Chris nods wordlessly, eyes raking up Stiles' body. Peter chuckles, making Stiles shudder. His hands trail up, dragging Stiles' shirt up to bare his hip bones and lower torso. Chris's eyes follow Peter's movements as he plays with the waistband and button of Stiles' jeans, jeans that are getting uncomfortably tight.

"It's true. If you'd met in a bar, Chris would have you bent over the hood of your car in five minutes flat. Or on your knees, sucking his cock like I know you want to," Peter purrs in Stiles' ear, hand drifting lower, pressing against the bulge in the front of his pants. Stiles whines, eyes fluttering closed. "Don't leave him waiting, Christopher."

Stiles opens his eyes to see Chris moving. He tugs him forward and into a harsh kiss, his hand tight on the back of his neck. Stiles moans into it, wrapping his arms around Chris' bare shoulders. He can feel Chris hard against him and it makes his cock twitch in anticipation, knowing that Chris wants him. Wants _them_.

They tumble onto the mattress, Chris covering Stiles' body with his own. Chris strips them quickly, nipping and sucking at Stiles' skin the whole time. Stiles is sure to keep his shields tightly up, easier said than done, to keep that crawling sensation from the curse away. He gasps when Chris slides down his body, grinning slightly, before sucking Stiles' cock into his mouth. Stiles whines, head flopping backward onto the mattress. Peter's chuckle makes him look up.

Peter's just as glorious naked as Stiles had thought he'd be. He'd known Peter has broad shoulders and powerful thighs, but seeing him bare is completely different. His stomach is taut and muscled, his cock thick and full between his legs. Stiles can't even bring himself to feel self conscious because Peter's already hard from just watching them. 

"Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?" Peter asks, right as Chris takes him deeper into his throat. Stiles groans, eyes closing. Peter laughs, sliding onto the mattress next to him. He taps Stiles' hip and says, "Onto your stomach. Let's get you prepped."

Stiles whimpers when Chris sucks one last time, then pulls off, helping Peter turn him onto his belly. A few moments later, slick fingers probe at his entrance, two sinking in easily. He'd fingered himself open this morning, knowing what was coming. When he looks over his shoulder, it's Chris who's opening him up, eyes heated and focused. 

"Eager thing," Chris says, twisting his fingers, finding Stiles' prostate. Stiles whines, letting his head hang down. "I'm surprised Peter brought you. He usually isn't one to share."

Stiles glances up at Peter, who just smirks down at him, running a warm hand down his back. "I don't mind when it's for business," Peter says with a wink.

Stiles doesn't have time to analyze that because Chris is adding another finger, stretching him even wider. Chris' fingers are thick, much thicker than Stiles' alone, and it takes his breath away for a moment. When he opens his eyes, Peter is still looking down at him with heated eyes, and Stiles can't hold back. Peter had told him during this ritual to follow his desires, to do what his instincts say. Right now, his instincts want Peter's cock in his mouth.

Peter groans at the wet heat of Stiles' mouth, hand coming down to curl in Stiles' hair. "That's it," Peter murmurs. "You're doing so well."

Stiles lets himself get lost in it, in the two men with him. Chris' hands are confident and skilled, and Peter's little gasps and moans spur Stiles on, making him fight to earn every little noise. Chris has Stiles' hips in his hands, slowing pressing the blunt head of his cock inside when Peter starts murmuring under his breath. It's Latin, and it sounds so elegant flowing from Peter's lips, and the power starts to build. 

Chris fucks Stiles hard, speeding up as Peter's volume rises. Stiles sucks at Peter as best he can, swallowing around him as Chris fucks him down onto Peter's length. Peter's voice gets tighter, his cock starting to twitch in Stiles' mouth and he takes vicious pride in that, in knowing that he's the reason Peter's getting close.

Stiles can feel the magic building within him, starting with Peter's and ending with his. Their magics complement each other, swirling and entwining inside him, the energy building higher and higher. Chris is grunting, fucking harshly into Stiles, like he can feel it, too. The grander the magic grows, the closer Stiles is to coming, the pleasure rising in waves inside him.

Peter's voice raises as he gets closer to the end of the incantation, full of power that makes Stiles shudder. His hand is still gripped tightly in Stiles' hair, hips thrusting forward as he fucks Stiles' mouth. As soon as he says the last word, Stiles can feel the magic snap into place. He screams, pleasure ripped from him as he comes, pleasure and magical energy releasing at once. He's aware that Chris and Peter come as well, hears their groans of pleasure, can feel the way their cocks spurt in him, but his focus is on the magic around them.

The curse doesn't just break, it _shatters_. Stiles can feel the magic blown off of Chris, can feel the way the dirty cloud surrounding him is cast off. Chris falls to the side, gasping. Stiles wonders what it feels like, if the curse being blasted off of him hurt. Peter said it shouldn't, but still. Stiles is trembling when he pulls of Peter's softening cock, feeling a little weak. Peter had said that's to be expected. 

Stiles blinks slowly, seeing Peter leaning over Chris, checking him to make sure the curse is completely gone. It is, Stiles is sure of it, but Peter didn't get to his level without double checking. He's murmuring softly, running his hands over the runes on Chris' chest, before nodding in satisfaction and turning his attention to Stiles. Stiles hums contentedly as Peter runs his hands through his hair, magic gently prodding at him, assessing how he's doing.

"You did marvelously," Pete says. 

Stiles preens under the praise, but has to say, "I didn't really do much. You steered, I was just along for the ride."

Peter snorts fondly. "Not many people could handle what you did. The magic would overwhelm them, or they wouldn't be able to even be a conduit for it in the first place," Peter says. "You're going to stop this habit of downplaying your strengths even if I have to drag it out of you."

Stiles doesn't have the energy to argue, just shrugs and lets his eyes flutter shut, happy to let Peter continue petting his hair. He drifts for a while, peripherally aware of Chris standing, of him and Peter talking, moving around. A blanket is thrown over him when he begins to shiver, starting to feel the energy depletion and lack of warm bodies near him. 

Stiles isn't sure how long it is until Peter wakes him from his doze, but he's already dressed and helps Stiles into his own clothes. Stiles catches a glimpse of Chris moving around in the bathroom behind them, and can't help but grin. He just fucked his way into helping shatter a deadly curse, with two hot older men, thank you very much. The energy around Chris is clear and healthy, and fuck, Stiles is proud.

Chris walks them out, looking like he can't decide if he's excited or sheepish. He shakes Peter's hand, then yanks him in for a hug, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. As soon as he released Peter, he hugs Stiles, too.

"Thank you," he says seriously. "You saved my daughter's life. I can't thank you enough."

"That's what payment is for," Peter says cheekily.

"You would have done it either way," Chris says. "I know you, Peter."

"Yeah, yeah," Peter says. "Call if you need anything or start feeling worse."

Stiles dozes in the car until they go through a Burger King drive thru and Peter makes him eat a cheeseburger. It makes him wrinkle his nose, like he always does when Stiles has 'that disgusting, processed garbage', but he seems more invested in Stiles eating than bitching about what it is. 

Peter had booked a hotel in town in advance instead of driving back to Beacon Hills. They're both exhausted, and Peter had known it wouldn't be the safest car ride if they were both fighting not to fall asleep. Stiles barely pays attention during the check-in process, listing a bit to the side. Peter tucks him under his arm, keeping him from swaying too much. 

Stiles doesn't bother looking around the room when they get upstairs. He beelines to the bed and faceplants onto the mattress, groaning in relief. He hears moving around, Peter dropping the their bags, turning off the lights, and locking the door, before the mattress dips and Peter climbs onto the bed next to him. Stiles doesn't bat an eye, just rolls until he's cuddled up to Peter's side. Peter chuckles, wrapping an arm around him. Stiles is pretty sure their room has two beds, but he isn't complaining.

"So tired," Stiles groans.

"That's what happens when you perform a high level ritual," Peter says. 

Stiles would love to just drop off to sleep, even though it's only 6:00 p.m., but there's one thing swirling in his mind that he just can't quite let go.

"You said something earlier..." Stiles says slowly, not lifting his head from where it's resting on Peter's chest.

"Hm?" Peter inquires. 

"You said you didn't mind sharing me because it was for business," Stiles says. "What does that mean for when it's not about business?

Peter hums, the arm around Stiles tightening. 

"It means...that I am a rather selfish man, dear heart" Peter says carefully. "And I want you in a way that won't allow me to share with others."

"You - really?" Stiles asks, lifting his head. It's dark, but Peter's eyes are glowing electric blue. It makes his heart beat even faster.

Peter reaches up, cupping Stiles' jaw in his large hand. "Did you really think you were anything other than mine?"

"I don't know," Stiles says. "I'm not a mind reader! And we both know I'm not exactly good with subtlety!"

"Truer words have never been spoken," Peter says, earning him a kick in the shins. Peter laughs and nudges Stiles' nose with his own. "Well it's something you can have. If you want it."

"I want it," Stiles says immediately. It's something he even has to think about. He wants all of Peter. He wants his mind, his body, he wants to be fucked by him and wake up next to him and be the one he comes home to.

The words are barely out of his mouth before Peter is kissing him. It's soft and sweet, not nearly as aggressive and claiming as Stiles had imagined would be his style, but he doesn't mind at all. Peter kisses him gently, like he's something to be treasured, before pulling back, resting his forehead against Stiles'.

"As much as I'd love to, I'm not fucking you tonight," Peter murmurs against Stiles' lips. "But when I do, I'll show you exactly what it's like to be the lover of a werewolf."

Stiles would love to tell him that he's perfectly ready now, but he can't really fight the exhaustion creeping back in on him. Even with the excitement that Peter is finally his, he can't avoid the pull, and soon he's drifting, cradled in Peter's arms.


	8. Chapter 8

Waking up sprawled across Peter's chest is one of the top three experiences of Stiles' life. Ten out of ten, would do again. Peter's already awake, stroking his hand up and down Stiles' back. Stiles hums and buries his face in Peter's chest, hiding his eyes from the sunlight spilling in the crack in the hotel's drapes. Peter's chest rumbles with his chuckle, and Stiles can't help the stupid grin that spreads across his face. Yeah he's still tired, but he's snuggled up with Peter and has nowhere to be until check out. Not a bad position to be in.

"What time is it?" Stiles asks, not willing to lift his head to look around for a clock.

"About 9:30," Peter says. "We have an hour and a half until check out." He punctuates that by digging his nails into Stiles' skin, dragging them down his back. Stiles' breath hitches.

"Oh? Whatever will we do with ourselves?" Stiles asks, grinding his hardening cock against Peter's hip.

Peter moves in a flash, rolling them so Stiles is beneath him. Stiles squeaks in surprise, but that quickly turns into a moan when Peter rolls his hips, pressing his hard cock against Stiles'. 

"I have a few ideas," Peter purrs.

Peter kisses him harshly, possessively, such a stark contrast from last night. He kisses Stiles like he wants to claim him, the wolf's greediness coming out. They tug at each other's clothes, desperate to be bare. Stiles enjoyed yesterday, enjoyed being between Peter and Chris, but he likes this better. Peter is all his, he doesn't have to share him. There's nothing performative about this, there isn't magic to channel. It's just them. 

Peter dips a hand between Stiles' legs, brushing a finger over his hole. There's a brief tingle, then a slickness as Peter traces his rim.

"Did you - did you just _magic_ lube into me?" Stiles asks.

"Possibly," Peter says, nipping at his throat. He presses two fingers inside, the stretch easy since he was fucked less than twelve hours. Stiles moans, arching into the touch, making Peter chuckle. "Are you complaining?"

"Nope, no, not complaining," Stiles says, rocking his hips. "Only complaining if you stop."

"Mm, thought so," Peter says. 

Peter crooks his fingers inside Stiles, brushing his prostate, and god, it's been so long since he's had anything inside him besides his own fingers or a toy, and Peter is so good. He knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how to stretch him wide. His cock is hard between his thighs, and when Peter licks a long stripe up him, Stiles cries out, almost coming then and there.

"Fuck, I'm ready," Stiles moans. "Come on, please, Peter."

"Please what, sweetheart?" Peter asks. He spreads his fingers wider, making Stiles keen.

"Fuck me, please," Stiles whines.

"Of course," Peter says. 

He pulls his fingers out, then lines up his cock at Stiles' entrance, the blunt tip pressing against his rim. He slides in slowly and fuck, he's thick, thicker than anything Stiles has had in him before. The stretch is incredible, filling him up completely, like Peter's making a spot inside Stiles just for him.

Peter wraps his hands around Stiles' thighs and fucks into him sharply, making Stiles gasp. It's a rough, brutal pace, and he can't get enough. Peter fucks him like he needs to, like he's been waiting for this. 

"So good for me," Peter growls, and Stiles moans when he sees Peter's eyes glowing blue. Apparently the werewolf thing does it for him. "So perfect, Stiles."

Stiles has been dreaming about this, aching to be filled and fucked, and it's better than he even imagined. Peter's mouth is filthy, his cock thick and perfect. It's almost embarrassing how quickly Stiles' orgasm builds, making him tighten around Peter in anticipation. Peter reaches between them, taking Stiles' cock in his hand. He strokes him quickly, brushing his thumb over the tip on every pass. Stiles is making desperate little noises, so different from Peter's deep grunts and growls.

"That's it, baby, let me see you come for me," Peter growls in his ear.

Stiles cries out, arching his back as Peter's thrust hits his prostate dead on, pleasure bursting through him. His cock jerks in Peter's grip, spilling over his hand. His orgasm is overpowering him, making him shake apart under Peter. Peter grins triumphantly and thrusts into him even harder, chasing his own release. Stiles grips his arms for dear life, his hole making obscene squelching noises around Peter's cock. 

Peter shouts as he comes, thick cock twitching as he fills Stiles with his come. He collapses forward to his elbows, resting his weight on Stiles. Stiles wraps his arms around Peter, running hands up and down his back.

Peter doesn't pull out, which Stiles appreciates. He doesn't want to be empty just yet, doesn't want to lose this feeling of fullness. Peter just noses at his temple, presses soft kisses to his skin. It's perfect and private and theirs. Stiles didn't mind the ritual with Chris, not at all, but he prefers this.

\---

As soon as Stiles walks into work the next day, rested and cheery as fuck, Calli takes one look at him and says, "Oh my god, spill."

"What?" Stiles asks, looking down at his shirt. He was so careful with his coffee, too.

"No, dingbat, spill the beans! That's your sex smile!" Calli says.

"What? I don't have a sex smile!" Stiles says, looking around to make sure no one heard them, but the library is empty, and probably will be until the senior center drops off a few patrons. 

"You totally do," Calli says. "Was it the hot werewolf that brought you lunch last week?"

"No!" Stiles says quickly. Entirely too quickly. 

"Uh huh, sure," Calli says. "Keep your secrets."

"Thank you, I will," Stiles says. 

His denial ends up being a moot point, because Peter shows up around noon with lunch for Stiles, and yeah, he's grinning like an idiot. Peter tugs him in for a deep, slow kiss, and Calli whistles under her breath. One of the ladies who comes with the senior center hollers that they're disgustingly cute. Stiles knows he's blushing deeply when Peter pulls away, a smirk on his face.

"I'll see you tonight," he says. 

"Right," Calli says when Peter disappears out the front door. "Nothing happened, uh huh."

"Don't you have back stock to organize?" Stiles asks.

Stiles still spends most of his time with Peter, but now instead of studying magic all of the time, he'll take breaks where he straddles Peter in his desk chair, lazily kissing each other while Peter runs his hands over him, scents him thoroughly, sucks marks into his neck. Now, Peter says, "Perfect this incantation by the end of the day and I'll blow you before dinner." Now, when Cora drops by and sees the livid bruises on Stiles neck, she smirks triumphantly, smug that she had been right.

Stiles is still ignoring his dad's calls. Well, not ignoring. But avoiding, absolutely. When they do talk, it's stilted, both of them carefully being overly polite and very purposefully not mentioning magic at all. Peter offers to have a sit down with Stiles' dad, explain more about magic, which Stiles appreciates, but he isn't sure about. He doesn't know how well he'll take it if his dad is willing to listen to a stranger over him about his abilities. Either his dad will understand and be more open to it, or he'll tell Peter to get fucked. Stiles doesn't know which would piss him off more.

In the end, he concedes it's a good idea simply because he can't go on with this weird relationship with his dad. His dad is reluctant when Stiles asks him to come over and meet his mentor, but he recognizes an olive branch when he sees one. Stiles just hopes it'll hold out long enough for him to at least listen to what Peter has to say.

Peter and Lilith spend the morning at Stiles' house, Peter helping him make lunch, Lilith lounging in the sun with Basel. Peter doesn't comment on the mildly frantic way Stiles prepares lunch, probably marking it down as another of Stiles' nervous habits. He does ask why Stiles is making a full roast for lunch, though.

"Is there something wrong with the lunch classics? Sandwiches and soup?" Peter asks. Stiles has him chopping potatoes next to the sink.

"It's a long standing tradition of bribing my dad with food," Stiles says, peeking into the oven. "If it's not a salad, it'll put him in a better mood."

Stiles peeks in the oven again, the third time in five minutes, before closing it with a sigh. Peter steps up behind him, wrapping his arms around Stiles' waist and kissing behind his ear.

"It'll be fine, sweetheart. No matter what happens, your father still loves you," Peter says. "Worse comes to worse, and he's unwilling to listen, we'll try again another time."

"Yeah?" Stiles asks. He nuzzles into Peter's hold, leaning back to press their cheeks together. "He's not the nicest when he gets really mad. He could say some...unkind things."

"I don't care," Peter says. "Your magic isn't going anywhere, and neither am I, despite harsh words from your father. We'll figure it out."

Stiles sighs but doesn't argue, letting Peter hold him until the timer beeps and he actually does need to check the roast. Lilith and Basel are over in a second, winding around his feet when they smell he has food.

"Are you cats or dogs?" Stiles asks as Basel meows plaintively, rearing back on hind legs and begging for food. "You're ridiculous, both of you." But he still pulls off a piece of meat for the two of them.

The sheriff shows up around 1:00 p.m. He looks uncomfortable, holding a six pack of beer on Stiles' front porch. Stiles tugs him into a hug, because yeah he's still pissed, but he loves his dad and has missed this. The sheriff hugs back as tightly as he can with his one free arm before letting Stiles bring him inside. 

Peter is plating up the roast, trying to look unobtrusive. It's adorable, and doesn't work at all. He turns when Stiles and the sheriff walk into the kitchen and sets down the plate he's holding. He wipes his hand off then holds it out to the sheriff, outwardly calm. Stiles doesn't know if he's actually nervous or not, but he doesn't think many things make Peter nervous.

"Sheriff Stilinksi," Peter says, shaking his hand. "A pleasure to see you."

"Mr. Hale," the sheriff says. "Nice to see you when you aren't behind bars."

"When you aren't what?" Stiles asks, gaze snapping to Peter.

"Your father arrested me when I was younger," Peter says, the corner of his lip twitching up as he fights a smile. "Somehow, Gerard Argent's house was turned magenta in the middle of the night. No charges were ever able to stick, though."

The sheriff shrugs. "I didn't try all that hard, to be fair. Argent's a pain in the county's ass," he says.

"Understatement of the year," Stiles says. "Uh, so we have roast and potatoes ready."

They makes polite small talk throughout lunch. One of the deputies just had a baby and brought him by the station. Stiles tells his dad about expanding his kids reading hour at the library to three times per week instead of just two. The sheriff isn't openly hostile to Peter, but he isn't kind either. It's not great for Stiles' nerves, but there's no shouting yet, so that's something.

When they're done eating, sitting a bit awkwardly at Stiles' round kitchen table, the sheriff leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his beer. "Speak your piece," he says. 

"I know that you have...reservations about magic," Stiles says. "But this is a part of who I am. I couldn't turn it off any more than I could edit my own genome. I get that it scares you, but this is how it's going to be."

"This isn't something he dragged you into?" the sheriff asks, briefly looking at Peter. Lilith, sitting in Peter's lap, hisses.

"No. Dad, you're the one that said Mom had magic," Stiles says."It obviously came from her."

"Yeah and look at all the good it did her," the sheriff says.

"I wouldn't presume to know what happened with your wife," Peter says smoothly, and Stiles can tell he's choosing his words very carefully. "But when a magic user is powerful enough and tries to repress that, it's been known to have negative impacts."

"Oh, so her death is all her fault?" the sheriff says.

"We both know that's not what I said. You have concerns about Stiles using magic, which while understandable, are dangerous and misinformed," Peter says. The sheriff opens his mouth to argue, but Peter doesn't give him the chance. "If repressing her magic did cause your wife's death, what do you think that would do to Stiles? Fighting him on this, making him ashamed of who he is and what he can do, making him turn that inwards is just going to hurt him."

"You have no right to lecture me about my son," the sheriff snaps.

"No, but I have the right to lecture you on magic. I'm a powerful witch, sheriff. One of the strongest in the country, actually. That should at least let you know that I know what I'm doing and what I'm talking about," Peter says. "Your son could blow me out of the water. He's incredibly gifted, incredibly strong, and without training, he could cause himself and others great damage." 

Peter nudges Stiles' foot under the table at that, sending a wave of calm through him to lessen the sting of the words. Not necessary, Stiles is well aware of the dangers untrained magic poses.

"Wanting him to ignore his magic is reckless and dangerous," Peter says. "And even if it weren't, this is Stiles' life. He gets to make his own decisions about how to live it."

"You don't - " the sheriff starts, voice heated, only to be interrupted.

"Only one of us is itching for a fight here, sheriff. And it isn't me," Peter says. 

"Dad," Stiles says. "Peter is giving you the facts. He's teaching me to control this and to use it. Please try to hear what we're saying instead of listening to your biases."

The sheriff sighs, deflating. His face, openly hostile and angry moments ago, now just looks tired. He rubs a hand over his eyes, and Stiles wonders when the was the last time he had a good night of sleep.

"I'm scared for you, kid," the sheriff finally says. "This isn't something I can protect you from."

"I don't need your protection from it," Stiles says firmly, trying to hide his annoyance. "I've got this dad. This makes me happy."

"Okay," the sheriff says, blowing out a breath. "I'll try, okay? It's just a lot for me."

"Yeah, but it's not about you," Stiles says. "This is about me, and you being supportive."

The sheriff swallows hard and nods. "You're right," he says. "Okay. Um. Do you want to tell me about, er, what you're learning?"

Stiles grins. It's not an overwhelming endorsement, but it's something. 

"I've been working on illusions," Stiles says. "I think it would be fun to put into story time at the library."

Stiles focuses on his magic, on the tingling beneath his skin, and calls it forward. It dances between his fingers until he's conjured a sparkling pink bunny in the palm of his hand. His dad stares, mouth open. The bunny hops onto the table, shining like its fur is doused in glitter. It does a happy little loop before disappearing in a puff of sparkles. 

"Ridiculous, I know," Stiles says with a grin. "I mean, I'm doing practical stuff, too. My house is now protected. Burglars won't be able to get in, it won't be able to catch fire, things like that."

"I didn't know that was possible," the sheriff says, eyebrows raised. "What else can you do?"

The sheriff actually listens intently, which is a bit surprising. Stiles is pretty sure he's turning his entire worldview of magic upside down. He skips the whole sex ritual with two older men thing, and doesn't mention he's seeing Peter, trying to save his dad's blood pressure. His dad _listens_ , though. He asks questions when Stiles tells him about healing magic, and even asks to see the magic bunny again before he leaves hours later.

The tension has dropped significantly by the time the sheriff leaves, Peter's business card in his pocket. He hugs Stiles for a long time, shakes Peter's hand again, before heading to work. Stiles sighs as he locks the door, sagging back into Peter's arms. Peter nuzzles the back of his neck, breathing in their combined scent.

"I guess that's about as good as I could have asked for," Stiles says.

"It could have been worse," Peter says. "When I first manifested, my great aunt threw a bible at me."

"What'd you do?" Stiles asks.

"Threw it back," Peter says. 

Stiles snorts and turns in Peter's arms, tucking his head under his chin. 

"Did you still want to go out to dinner?" he asks. They'd planned on getting Thai tonight, but honestly it's hard for Stiles to want to muster the energy to leave.

Peter hums, tightening his hold. "We can order out. Let's have tonight be just us."

Two hours later, they're eating Thai on Stiles' couch, Basel and Lilith curled up next to them. They're watching a Charmed rerun, laughing at the inaccuracies. All in all, not a bad night.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no self control when it come to spreading out updates, so here's another chapter.

Stiles is on the fence about people knowing he has magic. On the one hand, it seems like it's something that would be dangerous to broadcast, especially with people like Deaton around. On the other, he has nothing to be ashamed of and doesn't like the idea of having to hide what he is. 

When he asks Peter's opinion, he says, "If you're worried about Deaton or someone trying to gauge your magic again, I don't think it's a problem. Unless you're turning the entire library into a jungle, you should be fine."

"Is that possible?" Stiles asks, eyes lighting up.

"For you? Most certainly," Peter says.

Stiles talks to his boss about incorporating some illusion magic into story time, not entirely sure what she'll say, but she squeals in excitement. Karen is a sixty-five-year-old hard ass. He's never heard her squeal about anything. She almost hyperventilates from excitement when Stiles shows her the glittery pink bunny he's been playing with, making it hop around her desk. 

Despite practicing, and knowing that he's really fucking good at illusions, Stiles is nervous before the first Magical Story Time with Stiles. He's not exactly expecting parents to come in screaming BURN THE WITCH, but, well, people suck sometimes. He's been practicing though, and the kids are practically bouncing with excitement where they sit on the plush rug in the children's section, Stiles perched on one of the little chairs in front of them, and he refuses to disappoint.

The first he reads is _Stellaluna_ , a favorite of his growing up. As he reads, he conjures a miniature bat flying around him, then a forest scene with the bat clinging to a tree. The kids squeak in excitement, trying to touch it before their hands pass right through it. Peter thinks Stiles may be able to make his illusions tangible with enough practice, but for now they're just specters.

Next is _The Rainbow Fish_ , another favorite. It had taken a bit of time for him to be able to create an entire underwater scene, complete with iridescent fish scales, but he'd made it happen. The illusion floats in front of him, six feet long, four feet tall, two feet wide, and the kids are able to stand inside it, look around and see the fish swimming around them. 

Stiles looks up partway through the book to see Peter standing in the back with the rest of the parents. The kids' parents look thoroughly impressed, and Stiles is glad not to see any anger or fear. Peter looks, dare he say it, proud. 

Peter stays through the rest of the reading, until Stiles is done with _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_. Kids crowd around him, asking how he did that, if he'll do Harry Potter next, chattering excitedly until their parents pull them away to look at books. Peter saunters up when Stiles is alone, tugging him into a G-rated kiss (there are kids around, okay?). 

"That was wonderful, darling," Peter says. "The fish were inspired."

"Thanks," Stiles says. "It was hard at first to read and keep the illusions going at once, but I think I have it down now."

"I agree," Peter says.

"As do I." Peter and Stiles turn at the voice to see one of the parents approaching. He holds out his hand, and Stiles immediately knows _werewolf_. "Peter, it's been a long time."

"Deucalion," Peter says. They shake hands after Stiles. "Stiles, this is Deucalion Saint James."

"Nice to meet you," Stiles says.

"You as well," Deucalion says. "Your illusions are very impressive. I haven't seen anything that realistic in years. I'm actually in town on business. I work with Paramount and we're filming part of a movie, and our director is a bit of a technophobe when it comes to CGI. Give me a call if you're interested in putting your illusions on the big screen."

Deucalion hands him a business card before being tugged away by a girl with curly pigtails, saying, "Uncle Duke, you promised ice cream!"

"So I did," Deucalion says. He turns over his shoulder as he walks away, saying, "I look forward to your call."

Stiles blinks in surprise, looking down at the business card he'd been handed, then back at Peter.

"Was I just offered a job?" he asks.

"You were," Peter says.

"Because of _The Rainbow Fish_?"

"Because you're extremely talented," Peter says. 

"Huh," Stiles says, looking down at the card. "How do you know him?"

"He's a friend of Talia's. He and his pack are long-time allies," Peter says. 

"Do you trust him? Like if I accept, am I going to end up buried behind a dumpster somewhere?" Stiles asks. Peter snorts.

"As a general rule, there are very few I would trust with your life," Peter says. "But Deucalion is trustworthy in general. I trust that he knows what I would do to him if something bad happens to you. I don't anticipate that being an issue, though. He's very professional and focused on his work."

"So, it's okay with you if I accept?" Stiles asks.

Peter raises his eyebrows. "When have you ever needed my permission before?" he asks.

"I dunno, there's no weird werewolf jealousy crap or anything?" Stiles asks.

"No," Peter says with a roll of his eyes. He tugs Stiles closer by the belt loops, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "I know what you are to me. You being employed by another werewolf doesn't change that."

"Do you think it's a good idea?" Stiles asks.

"What do you think? That's what matters," Peter says.

"Dude, I think it sounds awesome," Stiles says.

"There you go, then," Peter says. "Your first paying magic job."

Stiles calls Deucalion later that day. Peter gave him tips on negotiating his contract, telling him a bottom dollar to not go below. "Know your worth," he'd say. Stiles sticks to it, even pushing for more when Deucalion gives him the scope of work. A forty-five-minute phone call later, Stiles has his first magical job lined up and he can't stop grinning.

\---

Deucalion's movie is in the fantasy genre, and the first thing Stiles does is create an illusion of a pure white unicorn emerging between the trees in the preserve. It's a simple day and they only need him for a few hours. They're thrilled, because the illusions hold up on camera extremely well. The next day is the illusion of a massive fire burning down their little village. That one's harder and takes a lot out of Stiles, but Deucalion is smart enough not to push him. Whether that's due to respect for Stiles or out of a healthy fear of Peter, Stiles doesn't know.

Balancing a movie schedule with work at the library is hard, but his boss is excited for him and is happy to move around his schedule. He barely takes vacation, so he has a lot of paid time off accumulated anyway. He comes home completely wiped on the days he has the library and the movie set, but it's so worth it. He thinks he might have finally found his magical niche. Peter has his wards and talismans, and Stiles has his illusions. He can create anything he wants, as big or as small as he wants, and the only limit is his imagination. And Stiles has a very vivid imagination.

It takes about two weeks for Stiles' part in the film to be over, and after drinks and dinner with Deucalion and a few crew members, Stiles is ready to sleep for a week. He's been staying at Peter's more often than not, because otherwise he'd barely get to see him. Tonight though, Peter has a pack event, so Stiles heads to his own house. They have breakfast planned for tomorrow before a full day of training (he hasn't had much time over the last few weeks), so even though Stiles isn't a fan of falling asleep without Peter by his side, he sucks it up like he adult he is, and crawls into bed at 9:30.

It only feels like he's been asleep for five minutes before he wakes up to Basel batting him in the face with his paws. Stiles groans, reaching out blindly to push him away, but the damn cat won't be deterred. He keeps batting at Stiles, meowing loudly.

"I already gave you food, let me sleep," Stiles mumbles, rolling over. Then Basel sinks his claws into Stiles' leg, making him shout and jerk. "Oh my god, what?!"

Basel jumps off the bed and runs to Stiles bedroom window, hopping onto the ledge and pawing at it. Stiles squints, not sure what he's supposed to be seeing, before he realizes that isn't Basel's reflection he's seeing; it's Lilith on the other side of the glass. And she's frantic, batting at the window, meowing loudly enough that Stiles is shocked he hadn't realized it was her and not Basel. Stiles crosses the room quickly and yanks the window open. Lilith jumps in immediately and dashes toward the bedroom door, turning her head to make sure he's following her. Stiles follows her downstairs, Basel at his side, to the back door, where she starts pawing and whining again. 

"Okay, okay," Stiles mutters. He slips on his shoes, grateful that he's at least wearing sleep pants and a shirt, not just boxers, and opens the door, following Lilith. 

Stiles is pretty sure she's leading him to Peter's, and it makes anxiety weigh heavily in his belly. Of all the reasons she could show up in the middle of the night and lead him to Peter's in a panic, none of them are good. Stiles reaches out with his magic, trying to remember what Peter told him about being able to feel the presence of other people, but he's still not great at it and can't seem to throw it beyond ten feet in front of him. He'd conjure a light, but he doesn't want to give away his position in case anyone else is out here,so he's stumbling after her in the dark nearly blindly. 

Lilith stops abruptly before the treeline breaks into Peter's backyard. Stiles can smell the wolfsbane, can see people circling in Peter's garden. He whispers under his breath, dampening the sound around him so he can creep forward, rustling through the leaves and branches without any noise. 

There are five of them in total, a mountain ash ring surrounding Peter's house. The have cans of gasoline and are yelling at each other about how to house won't light no matter how hard they try. Well, it's good to know Peter's anti-fire wards work. There are two broken windows, one on the first floor and one on the second, and Stiles is pretty sure they fired wolfsbane gas grenades inside. That's really the only reason he can think of that Peter hasn't blasted them into oblivion yet; he's knocked out.

Stiles wants to curse when he reaches for his phone, then remembers it's on his bedside table at home. He needs to call his dad, or Cora, _someone_. Stiles' offensive magic isn't exactly refined yet, and he has no idea if he can take out five armed assailants. It's _Peter_ though, so fuck if he isn't trying.

Stiles' magic flows from his hands, weaving the illusion. It's harder with sound, but Stiles creates the loudest, biggest snarling, stereotypical werewolf he can, advancing from the trees across the yard. The people in Peter's garden shout, pull out guns and start shooting at the illusion, shouting more when they realize it's doing nothing. Stiles wishes their yelling would alert Peter's neighbors, but the nearest house is way too far away to be heard. He darts out in the confusion, running up behind the hunters' backs. Stiles is pretty sure he recognizes Kate Argent, Gerard's zealot daughter. Great.

Stiles gathers his magic, what he has left after a long day's work, and thrusts it out, blowing the five hunters off their feet. They scream in panic and fear, flying through the air until they crash into trees or the hard ground. Stiles hears the sickening crunch of multiple bones breaking, but he doesn't stop to check, darting to break the mountain ash line and free Peter.

Then there's the crack of a gunshot and Stiles falls to the ground, screaming. Kate Argent is struggling to her feet ten yards away, holding her arm an odd angle. Cockroaches are hard to kill. Her gun is pointed at him, her grin manic. Stiles grabs at his shoulder, burning with pain and gushing blood.

"Another magic user," she sneers. "What do you - "

Stiles doesn't let her monologue at him. He doesn't know what he's trying to do, but he knows he's in danger, and Peter's in danger. He lashes out with his magic, with no particular goal in mind but to get her away form him. She shrieks as she's blasted backward with a burst of fire, slamming her into the side of Peter's house. There's a definite crack there and fuck, Stiles hopes it's her spine because he doesn't have it in him to do that again.

Stiles staggers to his feet, dragging himself to Peter's back door. It unlocks for him, his permission keyed into the wards, and swings inwards. Peter is collapsed on the ground ten feet in, crawling through the haze of wolfsbane for the backdoor. His face is shifted, eyes electric blue. Veins curling up his neck and covering his face are black and sickly from inhaling the wolfsbane. Stiles falls to his knees in front of him, wrapping his hand around Peter's. Peter slurs out something that sounds like it could be Stiles' name, but he's getting a little bit fuzzy at the edges. When he looks at the red dripping down his arm, he thinks yeah, probably the blood loss.

Stiles knows he's going to pass out soon, can feel his consciousness slipping. Even if he healed himself now, he wouldn't be able to replenish the blood loss, not without doing some major magic and he's just too drained. Their only chance is Peter. Stiles squeezes Peter's arm as tight as he can and shoves the rest of his magic into him, forcing out the wolfsbane poisoning, healing Peter's body from the toxin. Peter's eyes widen when he realizes what Stiles is doing and tries to jerk away, but he's not strong enough yet and Stiles is fucking determined. It's not quite the same as healing a cut or bruise, but it's similar, and even though he's dizzy and his vision is blurry, he thinks he sees the blackness in Peter's veins receding.

His last thought before he passes out is he hopes he healed Peter enough to get them out of here, because if not they're both going to die on Peter's kitchen floor. He vaguely hears an enraged roar as he lists sideways, hitting the ground. Then nothing.

\---

The first thing Stiles registers again is the beeping of a heart monitor, and that's relief in itself. He was in the hospital a lot as a kid, both because he was a clumsy, wild kid that got hurt a lot, and eventually because of his mom being sick. It's definitely not his favorite place to be, but it means that he's alive, that Peter got him out. It's a fight to open his eyes, he's still exhausted and could easily fall asleep, but he manages. The room is dark, but he can make out the outline of his dad slumped asleep in a chair next to his bed. The thought of trying to speak is too much, and he lets himself drift back to unconsciousness.

When he wakes up again, it's lighter and there's soft music playing. He opens his eyes to see Peter sitting on the edge of his bed, hand held tightly. His phone is sitting on the bedside table, playing the soft swing music they listen to when they spend the night curled up reading at Peter's. Peter exhales harshly, eyes closing briefly before he leans forward, pressing a kiss to Stiles' forehead. Stiles tries to wrap his arms around him, only to wince and fall back, pain lancing through his shoulder.

"Fuck," he hisses. 

"Don't," Peter says, immediately drawing out his pain. "Don't move. You've got quite a few stitches in your shoulder."

"Yeah, I noticed that," Stiles says. "What happened?"

"The surgeon got the bullet out. There was minimal damage. You're going to need some physical therapy, or to find a good magical healer, but you should be fine," Peter says.

"Good, but I meant what happened at your house? Was that Kate Argent?" Stiles asks.

Peter's gaze hardens. "It was. Apparently Gerard was under the impression that if I died, the enchantments around the Hale pack house would fall, too," he says. "Talia is leading in the polls and he panicked. He was going to kill me, then burn the pack house down. His cronies were found waiting outside the Hale property."

"What?" Stiles asks, trying to sit up straighter, but Peter pushes him back on his uninjured shoulder. "How - what - has he been arrested?"

Peter smirks. "Where do you think your dad is?" he asks. "The only reason he left your bedside is to arrest Gerard before he could flee town."

"What about...what about the hunters at your place?" Stiles asks. "Did I kill anyone?"

"No," Peter says, squeezing his hand. "Injured, yes. But I killed them."

Stiles startles at that. "You did?"

"You healed me, love. Enough that I could deal with them," Peter says, pressing his lips to Stiles' hand. "They were recovering from whatever you did to them, and I needed to get us out of there. So I killed them before they could kill us."

"Bet Gerard is going to love that, killing his favorite spawn. Don't say that in front of my dad," Stiles says.

"Oh, he already knows. And I've been cleared of any wrongdoing," Peter says. "Even if it weren't a clear case of self defense, apparently saving the son of the sheriff makes local law enforcement rather lenient with me."

"Yeah, that would do it," Stiles says. He squeezes Peter's hand, nearly shaking with how relieved he is that he's here, that's Peter's alive and whole. "Are you okay? All healed?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart," Peter says. "You got there in time. I won't bother to lecture you about running away or calling the police because I know you won't listen, so I'll just thank you."

"There wasn't time," Stiles says. "They'd already gassed you when I got there. Which, by the way, how did they manage to get past your wards for that?"

"I believe that had a magic user. Not overly powerful, they couldn't physically enter or set my house on fire, though they tried, but they were able to weaken some of the structural protections. I'll need to ward the glass better next time," Peter says. "That still doesn't...Why didn't you heal yourself? I heal, you don't."

"No from wolfsbane poisoning, you don't. You were our best shot of us both getting out alive. All I would have been able to do is a close the wound around the bullet. I still would have passed out and we'd have probably died on your floor," Stiles says. "And you're an idiot if you think I wouldn't try to save you." 

"Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve you," Peter murmurs, brushing Stiles' hair away from his forehead. Peter's face is raw and open, more than Stiles has ever seen. It makes him ache a bit, and he hums into Peter's touch.

"Can't get rid of me that easily," Stiles says. "You're stuck with me. Like a barnacle."

Peter chuckles, kissing his forehead. "Rest, little barnacle. I'm sure your doctor will be in soon to check on you."

Stiles really doesn't want to, but apparently using up your entire magical reserves and getting shot will take it out of him. He dozes, his hand in Peter's, swing music playing softly in the background.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one or two chapters to go, I think (depending on how they flow).

Stiles is released in a few days, despite his insistence that he's fine and can leave early. His dad cries, and apologizes again for being an ass weeks ago, and tries to get him to move back in with him until he's healed. Stiles firmly stomps that idea out. He loves his dad, really, but he moved out for a reason.

Peter, on the hand, stays with Stiles. He's having a contracting company come and make repairs on the house (there's minimal damage, Stiles just thinks he's being a clingy worry wart) and is staying with Stiles until that's done. After a day of him going out of his way to accommodate Stiles' every potential whim, Stiles puts his foot down.

"Oh my god, I can eat just fine," Stiles says when Peter tries to feed him.

"You only have one arm, just let me..."

"No," Stiles says, swatting at Peter's hand. 

The visitor Stiles is least expecting is Derek, but he shows up the second day Stiles is home, helping Cora bring in multiple casseroles. 

"From the pack," she says as she loads them into the fridge. "A nice, edible thank you for saving Peter's ass."

"Oh," Stiles says in surprise, watching them stack the food in his fridge. "Uh, thanks."

"Mom would have come herself but she's busy with campaign stuff. Her rival trying to murder her brother is great for her poll numbers," Cora says wryly. "Who knew."

Derek's standing a bit stiffly to the side, like he isn't sure of his welcome. Cora stomps on his foot and they have a truly impressive conversation with just their eyebrows before Derek sighs, stepping forward.

"I want to apologize," Derek says. "I let past experiences cloud my judgement and I treated you badly because of it. I'm sorry. I'm grateful for what you did, and I can see I was hasty in judging you."

Stiles can tell Derek means in, even though the words are a bit awkward. He doubts apologizing is Derek's strong suit. He has a feeling that's a Hale trait.

"Well, you're forgiven," Stiles says. "Now please, tell me all the embarrassing stories about Peter."

Chris Argent calls a few days after Stiles is home, horrified. He trips over himself to apologize for his family, even though Stiles repeatedly tells him it isn't his fault. Stiles eventually just has to say he's hanging up if he doesn't stop, and only then does Chris relax, answering Stiles' questions about how he and his daughter are doing. 

Deucalion sends a giant basket of candy and movies when he hears what happened, and a get well card signed by all the cast and crew Stiles worked with. There's a written job offer in there too, if Stiles ever feels like taking him up on it. 

It's only about a week before Peter flies in a magical healer, apparently one of the best in the country, to see Stiles. Her name is Alexandria and her magic feels incredible. Stiles gets a warm, pleasant feeling through him when her magic prods at him, like he's submerged in a mystical hot tub. 

Peter hovers in the corner of Stiles' bedroom, watching intently as Alexandria spins her magic, healing Stiles' muscles and bones and flesh from the inside out. Basel and Lilith sit on the bed, watching curiously, their eyes occasionally flicking to Alexandria's familiar, a fluffy little chinchilla perched on her shoulder with his tail wrapped around her neck. Stiles hopes Peter is prepared to lunge in case one of them decides he's a tasty snack, because Stiles isn't up for trying to wrangle cats.

Alexandria walks him through what she's doing as she goes, tells him, "It's actually super interesting how it works. It's not like magic, poof, skin is healed. It's like the magic encourages the bone and muscle and skin to regenerate faster, to mend quicker than it would on its own. There's a fascinating study on the science of it, and..."

Stiles listens, enraptured, and before he knows it, she's done. 

"Major kudos to you for distracting me from the creepiness of my flesh knitting together," Stiles says. 

Alexandria grins and helps him sit up. 

"Rotate your arm for me, carefully. It should be tight, but no sharp pain," she says.

Stiles does as she says and thankfully she's right. He's a little sore, but nothing like it's been. He thanks her profusely, Peter thanks her profusely, and she waves them off, saying it's something she's happy to do. Her eyes widen a bit at the check Peter hands her, and both of them refuse to let Stiles see the amount on it. It's fine, he'll just look in Peter's checkbook later.

Stiles had asked Peter at first if Deaton had had a hand in the attack, but Peter had scoffed, saying Deaton's incapable of even making a dent in his wards. No, the magical residue on Peter's property doesn't feel like Deaton at all, more like a witch. It turns out the magic user Kate had helping was an Argent cousin, so desperate for her family not to shun her because of her magic that she did all sorts of despicable things for them. Stiles would feel bad for her if it weren't for the whole trying to kill Peter thing.

Things are actually going well. Stiles is back at work, his boss and co-workers have finally stopped falling over themselves to help him ("Guys, I was healed. Totally fine, I can carry books."), and Peter's home is fixed. They still spend more nights together than apart, but that's not something Stiles is looking to change. All in all, he's feeling good. Which is of course when Peter receives a letter from the American Council of Druids.

Stiles gets home from work (well, to Peter's home), stopping to pet Lilith and Basel on his way in to the kitchen. He's about to ask what Peter wants for dinner, when he sees him sitting at the table, glaring at the letter in his hands.

"Uh, mad at the phone bill again?" Stiles asks. "I thought you got the exceeding the data limit charges dropped?"

"It's not a phone bill," Peter says. pushing the letter to Stiles. "It's from the druid council. Deaton's petitioning for me to stop teaching you and to have you removed from magical learning."

"What? Why?" Stiles yelps, yanking the letter to him.

"His theory is the 'Kate Argent incident' shows that you're too powerful and he wants your magic bound," Peter says. His words are careful and measured, but Stiles can see the rage in his eyes. "He's arguing that too much power in one person upsets the _balance_ and that his and my presence in Beacon Hills is enough as far as strong magic users go."

"What the _fuck_ ," Stiles hisses, reading the letter. "Why does this dude hate me so much?"

"He's intimidated. He knows you're much stronger than he is," Peter says.

"So they're coming here?" Stiles says, skimming the letter.

"They're sending a representative to 'assess the situation'," Peter says. 

"What happens if they rule in Deaton's favor?" Stiles asks nervously. "They, what, bind me? Kick me out of Beacon Hills?"

"Those are possibilities that they'll try, but they won't get far," Peter says, eyes flashing blue. "We'll leave long before it gets that far."

"What, go on the run?" Stiles asks. "Dude, I can't ask you to leave your pack behind."

"I _refuse_ to have you taken from me," Peter says fiercely. "And I refuse to let them steal your magic. If it comes down to it, we run and figure it out later."

Stiles doesn't believe the 'figure it out later' part of that at all. This is Peter. Peter has three backup plans at all times. His backup plans have backup plans. Stiles is pretty sure Peter has their next ten moves mapped out, and that at least brings him some comfort, though the anxiety is building in his gut. The letter says the representative will arrive to evaluate Stiles, and to some extent Peter, next Monday. That gives him three days to squirm and build up his nerves.

He's worried his magic is going to go haywire and turn the rep green or something like that, so he doubles down on control. He and Peter spend hours perfecting his shields (Peter tells him they're already perfect, but he sits with him anyway while he works on them, knowing it makes Stiles feel better). 

The more he thinks about it, the angrier he becomes. Of course he isn't in total control yet, he's still learning! He's only been aware of his magic for six months, how the hell do they expect him to have perfect control? His anxiety doesn't make his magic do wonky things, but his anger? His anger does. Peter's meditation becomes his top priority, because he needs to learn to calm his mind or else there are going to be many more shattered light bulbs. 

Peter doesn't show it, but Stiles knows he's nervous, too. He doesn't know which way the council will lean, if they're biased against Peter due to what his previous apprentice had been, or if they truly are interested in being neutral. He doesn't know Deaton's standing with them, so it's hard to say one way or the other. 

Stiles stays at Peter's Sunday night, the two of them curled up in bed together. Lilith and Basel, always so in tune with their witches, snuggle close, purring softly. Sleep isn't coming easily. All Stiles can think about is in the morning, someone who should have no say over Stiles at all (he's a witch! Not a druid! Stay in your lane, Jesus fucking Christ) is going to potentially try to separate him from his magic, Peter, or both. Peter tries to help, but he's tense himself, so they end up just lying together, neither of them sleeping. 

It's past 2:00 a.m. when Stiles finally feels himself drifting off, and even then his sleep is restless. He has dreams about creepy men in dark robes dragging him away from Peter and shackling him, draining his magic. He startles himself awake around 5:00 to find Peter awake too, blinking down at him.

"I'm not gonna get back to sleep," Stiles says with a groan.

"Breakfast?" Peter asks.

Stiles nods. He rolls out of bed and follows Peter out of the room. Basel and Lilith, normally lazy and cranky in the morning, follow them out on quiet feet. They don't even beg when Peter makes bacon and eggs. Stiles is hungry, but he doesn't think his stomach can handle anything heartier than that and toast. 

Neither of them speak much through breakfast, not saying a lot until Stiles announces he's going to shower. Peter nods and starts to clean up after breakfast. It's disconcerting and so much quieter than their normal morning routine, but Stiles can't bring himself to whip up some inane chatter as he gets ready for the day.

Peter's doorbell rings at exactly 9:00, right when the letter said the representative would arrive. Peter cups Stiles' face in his hands, kissing him soundly, then rests their foreheads together.

"No matter what happens, we will deal with this together," Peter promises. Stiles says nothing, just nods. 

The woman waiting on the other side of the door is younger than Stiles expected (and a woman! No old white men in long cloaks!). She looks incredibly poised and put together, and Stiles is instantly intimidated.

"Marin," Peter says, not quite able to hide the surprise. "I didn't know they would be sending you."

"I'm the closest council representative," Marin says. "And I volunteered."

"I'd say it's a pleasure to see you, but considering the circumstances, I would be lying," Peter says. A small smile quirks at the corner of Marin's lips. "Stiles, this is Marin Morrell," Peter says. Stiles is midway through shaking her hand when Peter adds, "She's Deaton's sister."

Stiles freezes. 

"Half sister," Marin corrects. 

"Yeah, that doesn't make me feel any better," Stiles says. "Doesn't that make you a bit biased?"

"No, actually," Marin says, and she doesn't seem offended at all. "Alan and I have never seen eye-to-eye on many things. His beliefs do not affect mine. May I come in?"

"Of course," Peter says, stepping aside. 

Peter's face is back to the blank, neutral look he's so good at, and Stiles has no idea what he's thinking about Marin being here. He leads them to the living room, offering Marin tea, which she declines. She settles herself on the couch next to Stiles, turning to face him.

"All right, Stiles. I know you read the letter, but I just want to reiterate to you that this isn't a punishment and I'm not here to hurt you," Marin says. "I just have a few tests to run to verify that you're in control of your magic and to put accusations to rest."

"Okay," Stiles says slowly. 

"It won't hurt," Marin says. 

"Yeah, not my concern, but good to know," Stiles says.

Marin holds her hands out, palms up. "May I have your hands?" she asks.

"Do I have a choice?" Stiles asks.

"Of course," she says.

Stiles glances at Peter, sitting in an armchair nearby. Peter nods and Stiles tentatively puts his hands in Marin's, waiting to yank them back if she pulls any funny business. She doesn't clamp down on him like he'd somewhat expected. Instead, he gets a small trickle of her magic playing over his skin, magic she'd politely kept to herself when shaking his hand earlier.

"I'm just trying to get a sense of your magic," Marin says calmly. "If you feel discomfort at any point, please let me know."

This...is nothing like Stiles had expected. He'd thought she would throw a bunch of tests at him, see what knowledge he has, see if she can make him crack. Instead, her magic gently explores his. Hers isn't nearly as strong as Peter or Alexandria's, but it still feels calm and capable. Basel jumps up and settles himself near Stiles' hip, watching Marin intently, making her smile slightly. It's nice to know his cat is ready to claw her face off if need be.

"Your magic feels lovely, Stiles," Marin says. "Very complementary to Peter's, as well. He's probably the best person to have training you, to be frank."

"You're not gonna, I don't know, try to whisk me away to druid training school?" Stiles asks.

"No," Marin says, smiling slightly. "It wouldn't do any good. Your magic is different than a druid's, so our training would be minimally helpful, if it would have any effect at all."

"So what now?" Stiles asks.

"Tell me about yourself," Marin says.

"...What? Like therapy?" Stiles asks.

"If that's how you see it," she says. "I am a therapist, but that's not the capacity in which I'm speaking with you."

"Uh, all right," Stiles says. "Um, I'm a librarian. I've been studying with Peter for about six months. Born and raised here. Prone to anxiety, which I gotta say is really kicking in right now."

"You're doing just fine. I've heard your illusions at the library are wonderful," Marin says. "And even Deucalion Saint James offered you a job."

"Yeah. How the hell did you know that?" Stiles asks.

"The magical world is full of the worst gossips. Do you feel like your relationship with Peter hurts your magical studies in any way?" Marin asks, though it isn't an accusation.

"No," Stiles says with a snort. He's not shocked she knows about that. He's sure Deaton included it in the laundry list of complaints against them. "If anything, he's stricter." He almost tells her about Peter's blowjob reward system, but figures holding back is better for that.

"I don't doubt that at all," Marin says. "Peter's always been passionate about the craft."

"Did you study with Peter?" Stiles asks.

"We took a few of the same workshop classes," Marin says. "His work is impressive, you have a good mentor."

"I'm trying to picture you guys at the learning annex doing potions and it's just...not happening," Stiles says.

Peter rolls his eyes, a first for the day. 

"The subject at hand, Marin?" Peter says.

"Hm, yes. There are many considerations here. First, you aren't out of control, not even a little bit. That's not a concern of mine in the slightest. Second, you aren't a druid. While the American Council of Druids does occasionally step in when a magic user is causing problems, we try to stick to druid matters. We don't have any authority over you, and no authority to try to deny you from learning," she says. A ball of tension in Stiles' chest eases. "The incident with the Argent hunters was self defense. Your magic may have lashed out, but it was contained to those trying to harm you. I'd be concerned if you'd blown up a street block, but your magic stopped the threat and that's it. As far as I can tell, nothing you've done as warranted our interference."

"What about what he said about me being too powerful to be allowed?" Stiles says. Yeah, he's paraphrasing, but that's the gist of it.

"That's not something I'm going to address," Marin says, making Peter raise his eyebrows. "It's a pointless claim for him to have made. There's no scale for acceptable power levels. I believe he was just throwing out charges in hopes that one of them would stick."

"So you know he's full of shit then," Stiles says. "You get that he has it out for us?"

"He does seem unusually concerned, yes," Marin says. "This level of investment from him has nothing to do with protecting the balance. I can't be seen as recommending this, but I think if you chose to pursue a protective over against him with the council, you would have a good case."

"What, like a restraining order?" Stiles asks.

"Something like that. If you are able to supply proof that he's harassing you and causing a disturbance within the local magical community, the council would be able to force him to move on from Beacon Hills," Marin says. She leans forward, looking at them intently, though her tone is carefully mild. "I'm not able to say if there are other complaints against him already. But if there were, those would be taken into account in your case as well."

"Would that include his history with the Hale pack?" Peter asks.

Marin smiles as she leans back. "Theoretically," she says.

"So, what, no injunction against me? No power stripping, nothing like that?" Stiles asks.

"No, Stiles. To be honest, I doubt we'd be able to bind your power even if we wanted to. I'm perfectly comfortable reporting back to the council that there is no need for concern," Marin says. She stands, smoothing out her shirt as she does. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

"I'm glad it was you they sent," Peter says, shaking her hand. Stiles follows suit. "Once this has settled, we should get together for drinks."

"That would be wonderful," Marin says. "Stiles, it was a pleasure to meet you."

"You too," Stiles says. 

It's not...a total lie. He likes Marin well enough for someone that was evaluating if he deserves to have some grand, magic intervention. She's definitely interesting, and in another situation, he's sure he would enjoy her company, though now he feels a bit off kilter. Relief is rushing through him though that no one is going to try to take him from Peter, and he's feeling more charitable toward her.

Peter closes the door behind her with a sigh of relief, tugging Stiles into a hug. He buries his nose in Stiles' neck, taking long, deep breaths. Lilith and Basel wind around their legs, purring and leaving plenty of cat hair behind.

"What are you thinking?" Stiles asks.

"I'm thinking of spending the day showing you exactly how much you mean to me," Peter murmurs, lips moving against Stiles' skin. His hands tighten on Stiles' waist. "Then I'm thinking we see about displacing a certain druid."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left!

Peter spends the next week gathering every shred of evidence against Deaton. He hires Braeden, a particularly good private investigator to dig into Deaton's personal life. Bank records, emails, anything that can tie him to illicit activities. Peter's always been dedicated to his work, Stiles has seen that before, but he's still impressed with the dedication and fervor Peter takes to his task. 

Talia seems reluctant to give testimony about Deaton, but she eventually consents to Peter recording her talk about what happened with Jennifer and Derek. Peter and Stiles both want to avoid pulling Derek into it if they can, not wanting to drag up horrible memories, but he volunteers a written statement without them asking, detailing what exactly happened with Jennifer and Deaton's involvement. It's so heartbreaking that it almost makes Stiles cry, and he's pretty sure Peter's wishing Jennifer were still alive so he could kill her all over again.

The American Council of Druids has their headquarters in Oklahoma of all places. Apparently there's a great magical nexus in Oklahoma City and they parked themselves right on it. It's not a state Stiles has ever been to. He and his dad have never really done a whole lot of traveling, and when they did, they usually just drove around the west coast. Even though he knows it isn't the longest plane ride, he's still antsy, bouncing his leg all through takeoff. Peter rests his hand on Stiles' knee, stilling his movements.

"Sorry," Stiles says. "Nervous tic."

"I understand," Peter says. "But we're going to be fine. Focus on your meditating if you need something to do."

Easier said than done in a crowded plane cabin with the recycled air smell and the baby a few rows away that once in a while starts screaming. Stiles doesn't blame her, or her little ears not adjusting to the pressure well, but it still makes it hard to get into the meditating state of mind.

Peter and Stiles go straight to the council's headquarters from the airport, not bothering to check into their hotel first. Stiles had been expecting a grand building in bustling New York or something. Honestly, in his head he'd pictured the Sanctum Sanctorum from Doctor Strange whenever he imagined testifying, but the building looks nothing like that. They arrive at a nondescript three-story office building. It's relatively modern and covered in glass windows. It's only when Stiles looks closer that he sees it's not quite what it appears.

There are small runes carved in the grooves of the window sills and above the revolving glass entry door. There's a soft pulsing quality to the aura around the building, and he's pretty sure that's protection from anyone accidentally wandering in. Peter's told him about wards like that, spells that repel anyone who's not supposed to be close. They'll cross the street to avoid it without completely knowing why, or hurry past without a second glance. It's impressive magic, and doesn't help Stiles' nerves.

They're greeted by Marin when they walk inside to what looks like a normal business building's lobby, complete with rent-a-cop sitting at a security desk. It's all for show, and it'd be convincing if Stiles didn't already know why they're here.

"The council is still meeting over another matter," Marin says. "We have time to store your luggage in my office before meeting with them."

"Lead the way," Peter says.

Once Stiles steps into the elevator, the vibe is completely different from the boring, beige lobby. The elevator is decorated in a deep maroon and golds, a large eye filled with runes painted on the back wall. Stiles raises his eyebrows, making Marin smirk.

"Ostentatious, isn't it?" she says. 

"A bit," Stiles says. "Kind of more on par with what I expected versus the corporate lobby."

"Some druids enjoy the flashier things," she says. "They enjoy the proof of their power and superiority."

"But not you?" Stiles asks. 

"Druids aren't superior to other beings," Marin says. "We may play a larger part than some in the universal balance, but we aren't gods."

While he finds Marin's attitude refreshing, it doesn't make Stiles feel better about their upcoming meeting. What if the council is full of the kind of druids Marin mentioned? They're going to take one look at Stiles and Peter and dismiss them out of hand. Peter senses his nerves and takes his hand, squeezing it in reassurance. 

Marin's office is less ostentatious than the gilded elevator and doesn't have the dark ambiance of the halls. There's more light and the window is open to let in the soft breeze, but there are still runes and druid art everywhere. Not as flashy, but still definitely something Stiles would picture as a druid space.

"It looks like my brother just arrived," Marin says, glancing at her phone while Stiles and Peter set down their luggage. "Any questions before I take you to the council chambers?"

"No," Peter says, hauling his laptop bag over his shoulder. "Let's just finish this."

Marin leads them back down the hall to the elevator. She hits a button for the eighth floor, which makes Stiles frown. He's 100% certain that from the outside, the building is three stories, but the elevator has buttons up to twelve. 

"Magic," Marin says, noting his confused look. "We've customized the building as our needs grew."

"So the TARDIS, basically?" Stiles says.

"If that helps you."

The council chamber is at the end of the long hall, also sparsely lit. Stiles doesn't get why they'd want to milk up the creepy factor, but that's just him. The large wooden doors open on their own accord when they get close, which Stiles thinks is a little much, but whatever, dramatic effects. Stiles' shields are locked down tightly, which turns out to be a good thing because as soon as they step inside the room, a rush of magic bears down on him from all sides, multiple people poking and prodding at him. Fucking rude.

The council is made up of about a dozen, and Stiles is shocked to find that they're not all old white men, though they do make up about half of the raised semicircle looking down at them. A regal looking Japanese woman sits in the center, her chair raised higher than the others. She's dressed in the same ceremonial druid robes as the rest of the council, though she wears a large pendant with the same eye dangling from it that Stiles saw in the elevator. Pure power radiates off of her, and at one time Stiles would find that intimidating, but he remembers what Peter told him when he was first learning to shield himself months ago. 

_"The only reason you'll feel magical bleedthrough from experienced users is they're trying to be intimidating. They're like the men at the gym who unnecessarily grunt when they're weightlifting."_

_"So they're trying to look stronger than they are?"_

_"Not necessarily. Sometimes they just want to show off. I'm not saying don't be wary of them, but be aware that their ego is their weakness."_

It settles him somewhat, and makes it easier to ignore the prodding at his shields. It was distracting enough at first that he didn't notice Deaton sitting in a chair on the left side of the room, looking forward impassively. Marin leads them to the chairs on the right before settling in an empty seat along the wall.

"Peter Hale, Stiles Stilinski," the Japanese woman greets. "I am Olivia Tanaka, head of this council. We're here today to hear your official complaint against Alan Deaton."

"That is correct," Peter says smoothly. 

"You may proceed," Olivia says.

Peter inclines his head, and Stiles thinks he's the only one who can tell how mockingly he intends the gesture to be.

"As only a part of this council was present for the incident involving the Hale pack and Alan Deaton six years ago, I'm starting with a quick recap," Peter says, pulling out copies of Derek's written statement from the file folder he has. He hands one to each council member, so they can follow while Peter reads aloud. It's a painful recount of everything Derek went through, that man really does have a talent with words, and it leaves many council members looking uncomfortable. Stiles wonders if it's because they weren't here at the time, or if they're the ones who voted against punishing Deaton.

Peter pulls out his laptop next and brings up his recorded conversation with Talia about Deaton and how he's tried to get close to the pack. Next is a video of an nearby alpha named Satomi, who backs up the claims of Deaton trying to get close to packs for power and trying to manipulate members. Stiles didn't know he'd talked to her, or the other three werewolves whose statements he shows, but he enjoys the furrow in Deaton's brow as he listens.

"When it comes to recent transgressions, not only did Deaton decline to tell Stiles about his considerable magical ability, an act that could have easily led to his death if we'd not met, he then stalked Stiles and tried to get him to reveal more of his magic," Peter says. "When Stiles foiled an assassination attempt on me and my pack, Deaton decided that instead of being applauded for his heroics, that it was fit to report him to the council and demand a representative be sent to investigate. He's out of line, ignoring the druids' vow of non-interference. It's passed from mild irritant to active antagonism and it's presenting a danger to me, my apprentice, and my pack."

Olivia looks at Deaton, eyebrow arched. He doesn't look thrilled, but Deaton never looks particularly happy about anything. 

"Mr. Stilinski, would you please give us your account of the interactions Mr. Hale is speaking of?" Olivia asks.

Stiles tells her what he can, about the creeping feeling of Deaton's power when he was trying to gauge Stiles', trying to force him to show himself. He reiterates what Peter said about his first meeting with Deaton, how he'd examined Basil, looked at Stiles curiously for a few moments, and carried on like nothing had happened. Stiles tells them of the pure wrongness and dread that washed over him in Deaton's presence. He keeps his eyes on Olivia as he talks, somehow sure that she's his best bet in all this. She doesn't look at all happy when he's done speaking. She turns to Deaton, mouth thin.

"Any rebuttals?" she asks.

"I hardly stalked Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says. "He works at a public library, which I am free to visit. And he's the one who came to me first when he found the cat."

"When he found his familiar," Peter corrects. 

"So you knew he has abilities, and had found a familiar, and didn't see fit to introduce him to magic? Even knowing what happened to Claudia Stilinski with no training?" a white, bearded man next to Olivia asks. Stiles jerks at his mother's mention, but doesn't say anything.

"Our path is of non-interference," Deaton says.

"Unless it is needed to maintain balance," Olivia says. 

"The combustion of a strong magical talent, a talent that was most likely put on this earth for a reason, especially considering his mother, is a step away from balance," another woman says, voice severe. 

"I am not a mentor," Deaton says. "It wasn't my place to introduce the boy to anything."

Stiles glares. _Boy_ , his ass.

"But you were in an easy position to make an introduction," the bearded man says. "It speaks volumes that you didn't."

"Druids are not wizards to give guidance," and elderly man says, voice weak with age. "We owe a spark nothing."

This sets off a round of arguing between them, loud enough that Stiles can't follow. When he glances around, he sees Marin staring impassively at Deaton, who's looking right back at her. It's the most bizarre staring contest Stiles has ever seen, and if it weren't for the fact that he can't feel any magic, he'd think they were silently battling each other. 

"The point," Olivia says loudly, "is that Alan Deaton's actions and inactions have caused strife and disaster in Beacon Hills, and that it is an established pattern of behavior."

No one disagrees, either because they think she's right or they aren't willing to directly disagree with the head of the council. 

"I know you, Peter Hale, and I know your request would be to have his life," Olivia goes on. Stiles glances at Peter, who doesn't disagree. "But that's not something I'm willing to give at this time."

"I understand," Peter says, the pleasant mask in place that he uses when dealing with people he'd rather not talk to.

"Alan, you have seven days to vacate Beacon Hills. I don't care where you settle, but I advise that it's far away from Northern California, and any of the packs that have spoken against you," Olivia says. "If they see you in Beacon Hills again, I won't raise any retribution for the Hales taking your life."

Deaton doesn't look happy, but he seems to understand their word is final and being given a week to leave is more than generous. He nods curtly and leaves the room, without a glance at Marin.

"Does this clear up the matter to your satisfaction?" Olivia asks.

"Yes, thank you," Peter says. Stiles would love to chime in and say uh, no, we need an apology from the council for not acting years ago, though he has the feeling that's not something they'd ever get. 

"You're welcome," Olivia says. "I wish you well in your training, Mr. Stilinski."

"We will be monitoring your progress," says the old man from earlier, which is a bit hypocritical considering he said they aren't here to give advice to sparks.

"Feel free to monitor," Stiles says. "But I'm not a druid. So kindly remember to stay in your lane."

The old man doesn't seem sure what that phrase means, but the spirit of the words make him glare. Marin ducks her head, the corner of her lips twitching.

Peter, probably figuring it's best to leave while they're ahead, gathers his papers and laptop and leads Stiles out of the room after thanking the council one last time, followed out by Marin.

"That went a lot better than I thought," Stiles says when they're in the hall.

"Olivia Tanaka wasn't the head of the council when I brought a complaint against Deaton last time," Peter says. "Though she was sympathetic back then. That helped us."

"Alan doesn't have many friends left on the council," Marin says. "They're tired of hearing complaints against him and covering his messes."

"I mean, it sucks that it took this long, but at least they've acknowledged he sucks," Stiles says. "Do you think he'll really pack up and go?"

"I do," Marin says. "He's always been good at self preservation, and not many would be foolish enough to stick around when someone like Peter Hale has all but been given the green light to kill them."

"Okay, sweet," Stiles says. "Can we go to our hotel now, then? I'm tired and smell like plane and want to nap off this stress like now."

Peter snorts and kisses his temple. "We can."

They retrieve their luggage from Marin's office and she leads them down to the lobby. Stiles is feeling a lot more charitable about the boring decor now that the weight of the meeting is off their backs and they're so close to never having to deal with Deaton again.

It really hits Stiles in the car back to the hotel that they won. They _won_ a case against a druid, before the druid council. The nerves that have been frazzled for the last week are finally less frayed, and it's like he can breathe again. He looks over at Peter, who looks the exact same, like a weight has been lifted. Stiles reaches across the console and twines their fingers together. Peter smiles, glancing over before looking back at the road. 

"So what now?" Stiles asks.

"Now we go to our hotel and I fuck you senseless," Peter says. Stiles swallows hard. "Then we go home and make sure that waste of oxygen really has gone."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PRAISE THE FIC GODS, WE'RE ALL DONE HERE!

Stiles hums as he finishes gathering the herbs in Peter's garden, brushing the dirt off his hands. He has about a half hour before they have to leave, but there's really no point of showering if they're going to spend a few hours traipsing through the preserve anyway. Instead, he heads back into Peter's house, Basel at his heels. Peter's in the kitchen, his mortar and pestle out, grinding up ingredients for the poultice they'll be using later. He hands Peter the willowherb and kisses him on the nose before moving deeper into the house.

Stiles feeds Basel and Lilith, spending a few minutes scratching behind their ears, before changing into more comfortable clothes and pulling on his hiking boots. His backpack is already packed and waiting by the door, and all he has to do is wait for Peter. Peter, chronically early, is ready in less than fifteen minutes, jars shoved into his own backpack. 

They take the Jeep, since Peter's car would probably faint at the sight of mud. Basel and Lilith, used to riding around with Stiles, curl up in the back seat, nestled between the backpacks. They park as close to the trail as possible, Lilith and Basel jumping out and following them into the trees. Stiles never knows how long it will take to find the nemeton. Sometimes it takes five minutes, sometimes they're turned around for hours until the stump decides to stop being ornery and let them near. Peter says the nemeton likes Stiles, so most of the time it's an easy walk until they find it.

Today is a fast day. Stiles and Peter can both feel it calling to them, can feel the way it's pulsing excitedly with what it caught. They both know exactly what it means and came prepared. As Stiles had thought, the path is clear to them, guiding them through the thickest part of the preserve until the branches open wide, a sense of calm washing over him as it always does when he enters the nemeton's clearing. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, smiling. He only opens his eyes when he hears Peter's chuckle.

"Look at what we have here," he says, voice rumbling, his wolf very near the surface. 

"Mm, so prettily wrapped, too," Stiles says, eyes resting on the nemeton. 

On top of the stump, wrapped tightly in layers of vines, is the prone form of Deaton, his eyes wide and face purple from lack of oxygen. Any normal vegetation wouldn't have a chance at holding a druid like this, but the nemeton isn't ordinary. 

"And here your council was so convinced you wouldn't come back to Beacon Hills," Peter says conversationally, stalking forward. "How long did it take him, sweetheart?"

"About six months," Stiles says casually, following Peter closer.

"Six months was plenty of time to plan what we wanted to do when you came back," Peter says softly, squatting next to the nemeton where Deaton can see into his eyes. "And this tree, well, it's hungry. And you're perfect nemeton fertilizer." 

Deaton's eyes widen and he struggles harder, but the nemeton just tightens the vines around him even more, until Stiles is pretty sure he's only a few seconds from passing out. Peter smiles and pats Deaton on the cheek before standing and shrugging off his backpack. Stiles follows suit, setting his backpack on the ground next to Peter's. They pull out the jars of poultice, a spellbook of Peter's, and a gilded athame. 

The nemeton seems to read Peter, to know what he needs, and the vines shift, pulling at Deaton until he's flat on his back in the middle of the stump, vines at his wrists, ankles, and curling around his torso and throat so he can't move or speak. Stiles throws a protective circle up around them, then reads the runes from the book to Peter as he paints them on Deaton's skin with the poultice. They glow briefly before setting into his skin, and soon his forehead, cheeks, and chest are all covered. Using the athame, Peter cuts a line down Deaton's arm, letting the blood flow down and soak into the tree stump, giving it a taste of what's to come. 

Peter takes Stiles' hand in his when he steps back, holding the spellbook out in front of him. With their magic working together as they chant, combined with the power they're pulling from Deaton, it's not stretch at all to push it into the nemeton. Stiles barely has to do any work, the stump guiding them as they repeat the incantation. 

Stiles is sure that Deaton would be screaming if he had any breath left in his body. As it is, his eyes roll back into his head, his body seizing in the nemeton's grip. Stiles feels it the second the nemeton sucks the life out of Deaton, draining him of his magic and sucking out his life's essence. Deaton's body shrivels up before their eyes when they finish speaking, turning into nothing but fertilized dirt on the top on the nemeton. Slowly, inching its way up, a spring grows from the center of the stump, growing until it's three feet tall, little leaves budding from the small branches. 

Stiles' breath catches as he and Peter watch the nemeton take the first steps to restore itself, healing from the years of abuse it had taken, using Deaton's rotten life to make something beautiful. 

"We'll need to visit more often," Peter says, eyes still on the sprig. "Make sure we're helping it to grow and heal as much as possible."

Stiles nods. He can already feel the tree, the pull of it in the back of his mind, and knows it won't hesitate to tell him what it needs. 

Peter murmurs his thanks to the nemeton before shouldering his backpack. Stiles takes his own and following Peter's lead out of the clearing. He expects to feel some kind of guilt for helping kill Deaton, to maybe feel his magic tainted for taking a life, but nothing feels out of place. He wonders if it's because Deaton was so blackened that ending his life, bringing energy to the nemeton is its own kind of balance. That's the theory he's running with at least. 

"Are you still feeling up to dinner with your father tonight?" Peter asks. The cats slink between them on the path back through the trees.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "A little light human sacrifice isn't enough to put off Thai food."

Peter snorts, pausing to tug Stiles to him, kissing him softly. "There's the morally flexible little thing I fell in love with."

"Mm, my slightly murderous, werewolf witch," Stiles answers, grinning. 

Peter takes Stiles' hand, twining their fingers together, and they walk through the preserve, their familiars weaving in and out of the trees around them. The nemeton pulses within and around them, claiming the territory and witches as their own.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com).


End file.
